p. 


THE 


FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


OB, 


TWO   CENTURIES  AGO. 


BY 


J.     P.     BRACE. 


NEW-YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 


200    BKOADWAY. 
M.DCCC.Lin. 


Entered,  according'  to  Act-  of  Congress,-  id  «he  year  1853,  by 


In  the  ClerkVoMce'of  tSe  District  Court  of  the  TJnrted  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New-  York. 


THIS     VOLUME 

IS  DEDICATED  TO 

HON.    ISAAC    W.    STUART, 

WHO 

IN  HIS  WORK   BY   SC^VA,    HAS   ACCOMPLISHED   IN   HISTORY   WHAT 
THE   AUTHOR   HAS   ATTEMPTED   IN  FICTION, 

THE 

Illustration  of  tfje  Earliest  ^ertott  of  our  (Colonial  ISiistence. 

HE  WILL  RECEIVE  IT  AS  A  TESTIMONIAL 

OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  ADMIRATION  OF  HIS  TALENTS  AS  A  WRITER, 
AND  HIS  FRIENDSHIP  AS  A  MAN. 


M62770 


PREFACE. 


IT  is  usual,  in  writing  a  book,  to  tell,  in  its 
preface,  the  object  for  which  it  was  written, 
and  the  great  moral  it  is  designed  to  con 
vey.  The  author  of  this  Tale,  then,  would 
observe  to  the  public  that  his  object  was  to 
please  himself.  That  being  accomplished,  if  it 
please  any  one  else,  it  will  be  so  much  clear 
gain  to  the  happiness  of  the  world  generally. 
Its  moral  can  be  better  learnt  from  its  perusal 
than  its  preface. 

Although    the    author   has    employed    the 
characters  of  history,  he  has    not  encroached 


8  PREFACE. 

upon  its  events.  He  had  no  desire  in  his  at 
tempted  work,  to  describe  what  the  early  set 
tlers  of  Hartford  actually  did,  in  their  quarrels 
with  the  Dutch,  or  their  fights  with  the  Indians, 
or  their  negotiations  for  their  territory.  Such 
descriptions  are  the  province  of  the  historian, 
and  though  they  might,  with  propriety,  have 
mingled  themselves  with  the  scenes  he  has 
painted,  they  would  have  interfered  with  his 
object,  which  was  the  delineation  of  character 
alone. 

To  those  who  may  assert  that  the  charac 
ters  are  too  modern  for  the  period,  the  author 
would  reply,  that  human  nature,  in  its  greatest 
phases,  is  alike  in  all  ages.  Usages  and  cus 
toms  may  differ — the  modes  of  expressing  pas 
sions  and  feelings  may  change — the  convention 
alities  of  life  may  alter — but  the  heart  remains 
the  same.  The  heroes  of  Homer  have  the 
same  emotions  with  those  who  figure  in  the 
"Keveries,"  or  "Thoughts"  of  modern  authors; 
they  only  differ  in  the  manner  of  exhibiting 


PRFFACE.  y 

them.  An  author,  to  make  his  book  readable, 
must  make  it  understandable.  It  would  have 
been,  then,  as  absurd  to  have  made  the  charac 
ters  of  this  fiction  converse  in  the  dialect  of 
that  day,  as  to  have  printed  the  work  in  the 
spelling  of  the  early  records.  So  much  for  its 
modern  aspect. 

No  apology  will  be  set  forth  in  this  preface 
for  its  publication,  for  none  is  needed.  If  the 
public  do  not  fancy  it,  they  will  not  read  it.  If 
they  do  fancy  it,  an  apology  is  only  an  insult. 

The  author  trusts  that  the  grave  charge  of 
want  of  "  Orthodoxy,"  which  was  made  by  cer 
tain  fastidious  critics  against  his  first  work,  will 
not  be  repeated  against  this. 

HABTFOED,  July,  1853. 


THE 

FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I've  seen  Connecticut's  fair  wave, 

Still,  as  it  flow'd  through  rich  fields,  smiling ; 
"While  the  tall  corn  its  bright  green  gave, 

The  river's  darker  hue  beguiling. 
Fair  are  thy  fields ;  thy  skies  for  ever  shine ; 
"Nor  drinks  the  sea  a  lovelier  wave  than  thine." 

The  Traveller. 

THERE  is  hardly  any  stream  in  this  land  of  waters 
more  beautiful  in  its  quiet  repose  than  the  Connec 
ticut  in  Hartford  county.  Every  thing  around  it 
is  in  keeping  with  its  own  serenity.  No  mountains, 
except  on  the  remote  horizon,  and  they  serving  only 
as  appropriate  frames  to  the  beautiful  picture — no 
rocks — no  bold  and  rugged  cliffs,  or  steep  and  rough 
shores,  hem  in  its  loveliness ;  but  meadows  as  green 
as  the  garden  of  Eden  skirt  its  low  banks,  while  an 


12        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

occasional  grove  of  willows  and  red  maples  wave  over 
the  sluggish  waters.  Cultivation  shows  her  power  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  placid  stream,  making  the  river 
smile,  as  it  nourishes  the  bright  corn  on  its  very 
margin.  Meanwhile  the  stream  itself,  lying  too  low 
to  be  reached  by  the  storms,  is  never  disturbed  by 
dashing  waves,  but  creeps  along,  slowly,  quietly,  si- 
lencly,  almost  solemnly,  to  its  ocean  tomb — its  waters 
afc  Jmvey  limpid;  .and  refreshing  as  a  mountain  brook. 

The  exceeding  crookedness  of  the  stream  adds  to 
its  beauty,  as  it  prevents  any  thing  like  tameness  or 
insipidity  marking  its  character — its  quietness  having 
nothing  of  the  stagnation  of  the  canal.  The  reaches 
of  the  river  are  short,  and  are  terminated  by  the  low 
wood,  or  the  rich  cornfield,  or  the  green  meadow,  or 
the  busy  village  with  its  spire,  so  that  there  is  no 
monotony  in  its  loveliness. 

There  may  be,  elsewhere,  more  to  excite — more 
to  call  out  the  bursts  of  genius  in  description — more 
to  elevate  the  mind  by  roughness  and  wild  sublimity 
— more  to  interest  the  bustling  traveller  in  his  love 
of  the  busy  or  the  useful ;  but  for  a  mild,  calm,  quiet 
mind,  sick  of  the  bustling  and  the  busy,  tired  of  being 
always  "  stretched  on  the  rack  of  sublimity,"  no 
stream  presents  greater  interest  than  the  Connecticut, 
whether  you  sail  down  its  peaceful  tide  on  a  mild 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  13 

summer  afternoon,  or  ride  along  its  banks,  through  its 
flourishing  and  "beautiful  villages,  catching  occasional 
glimpses  of  its  bright  blue  waters,  amid  the  brown 
and  the  green  around  you. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  the  city  of  Hartford 
— its  long,  winding  streets — its  elegant  public  build 
ings — and  its  commodious  private  residences  ?  Have 
your  steps  ever  been  directed  over  the  beautiful  stone 
bridge,  rivalling,  in  its  dimensions,  many  of  the  struc 
tures  of  Europe,  to  the  southern  section  of  the  city  ? 
Has  your  heart  ever  thrilled  as  you  passed  beneath 
the  venerable  arms  of  the  Charter  Oak,  and  as  the 
wind  whistled  through  its  scanty  and  time-worn 
branches,  listened  as  if  you  heard  the  spirits  of  other 
times  whispering  above  you  ?  Have  you  ever  fancied 
as  you  have  gazed  at  the  few  which  remain  of  the 
tenements  that  the  early  settlers  erected,  what  strange, 
romantic  deeds  their  old  battered  timbers  might  tell 
— what  stories  of  public  effort,  or  of  private  joys  and 
sorrows  ?  If  so,  you  will  with  the  greater  readiness  be 
prepared  to  follow  me  as  I  roll  back  the  tide  of  time 
far  into  the  remote  past,  and  bring  again  those  streets 
to  view  when  they  were  but  cow-paths  through  the 
wilderness. 

It  is  in  the  year  1651  that  our  tale  opens.  The 
place  had  been  settled  some  fifteen  years,  and  many 


14        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

dwellings  had  sprung  up,  commencing  from  the  banks 
of  the  Little  River,  each  way,  and  extending  up  and 
down  Main-street,  with  Elm,  Sheldon,  Coles,  and  La 
fayette  streets  on  the  south  side  of  that  stream,  and 
through  Arch,  Front,  Trunibull,  and  Pearl  streets 
north.  We  give  the  names  by  which  these  streets 
are  now  known ;  the  antiquarian  can  consult  an  ex 
cellent  map  of  Hartford  at  .this  period,  lately  pub 
lished. 

Some  of  the  most  distinguished  leaders  of  the 
colony  resided  in  Coles'  (now  Governors'  street),  and 
others  in 'Arch-street.  The  residence  of  that  family, 
whose  adventures  and  character  it  will  be  our  duty  to 
delineate,  was  in  the  last-named  street,  not  far  from 
the  stone  building  erected  by  a  late  respected  mayor. 
Mr.  Hooker,  the  minister,  resided  near.  A  low 
wooden  bridge  crossed  the  Little  River  a  few  rods 
to  the  east,  and  through  Coles'-street,  ran  down  to 
the  neighboring  colony  of  "VVethersfield,  passing  by 
the  residences  of  Edward  Hopkins,  William  Whiting, 
John  Webster,  Thomas  Welles,  and  Greorge  Wyllys, 
all  distinguished  in  the  early.,  history  of  the  place. 
Remains  of  the  primitive  forest  were  frequent  the 
whole  length  of  this  road.  Among  the  giant  oaks 
that  then  stretched  their  gnarled  and  twisted  branches 
across  this  path,  was  one,  destined  in  subsequent 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  15 

years  to  remain — the  glory  of  a  rescued  common 
wealth. 

Many  farmers  had  settled  all  along  the  banks  of 
the  Little  River,  and  had  commenced  cultivating  the 
open  meadows  on  its  borders,  many  of  which  had  been 
denuded  of  their  timber  by  the  fires  of  the  Indians, 
long  before  the  coming  of  the  Pale  Faces.  A  few, 
more  adventurous,  had  crept  up  to  the  neighboring 
hills,  and  the  sound  of  the  axe  had  already  echoed 
through  their  heavy  forests.  One  mill  had  been 
erected  on  the  stream,  and  a  few  workshops  of  abso 
lute  necessity  had  been  established. 

Northward,  the  path  was  continued  through  the 
forests  to  the  more  distant  settlement  of  Windsor, 
and  some  few  bold  spirits  had  settled  themselves  in 
that  direction,  erecting  their  houses  as  near  the  bare 
meadow  lands  as  possible  for  the  greater  convenience 
of  pasturage  and  mowing. 

Eastward,  the  river  rolled  in  its  silent  and  quiet 
stateliness :  seldom  was  its  glassy  surface  rippled  by 
the  passing  boat,  or  disturbed  in  its  dreamy  solem 
nity,  except  by  the  numerous  wild-fowl  on  its  shores. 
Now  and  then,  the  slight  c.anoe  of  the  savage  would 
steal  along  its  blue  and  beautiful  waters,  stilly,  as  if 
afraid  to  disturb  their  quiet  sleep.  The  rude,  flat- 
bottomed  boat  of  the  settler,  with  its  square  sail, 


16        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

might  be  very  rarely  seen,  coursing  along  between  the 
infant  villages ;  but  seldom  was  the  wave  disturbed 
by  man.  The  sudden  splash  of  the  sturgeon  in  a  still 
evening,  or  the  low  wail  of  the  night-heron,  were 
almost  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  oppressive 
stillness  of  its  waters. 

Westward,  lay  the  unbroken  forest,  in  all  its  maj 
esty — wild — tangled — with  all  its  knotted  brushwood 
untouched  by  man — its  old  oaks  stretching  their  limbs 
athwart  the  sky,  and  its  tall  pines  seeking  the  heavens 
in  their  altitude.  A  few  deer-paths  or  Indian  trails 
were  scattered  through  its  recesses — the  wolf  prowled 
through  its  upland  glades — the  bear  growled  in  its 
leafy  coverts — the  panther  yelled  in  its  tangled  thick 
ets — the  wild  turkey  stalked  through  its  sunny  open 
ings — and  the  long  branches  of  its  oaks,  the  thick 
tops  of  its  beeches,  and  the  tall  trunks  of  its  chest 
nuts  and  its  hickories  were  alive  with  squirrels. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  17 


CHAPTEK  II. 

Tis  autumn  now ;  and  every  tree 

Its  richest  splendor  wears : 
For  nature  shines  in  gayest  dress, 

Soon  as  decay  appears. 

Its  red,  seared  leaves,  the  maple  bath'd 

"Within  the  swelling  stream ; 
The  birch,  its  yellow  foliage  sent, 

In  particolored  gleam. 

Story  of  the  Niagara  River. 

EVERY  observer  of  nature  has  noticed  the  extreme 
splendor  and  even  gayety  of  our  autumnal  woods.  To 
those  foreign  travellers,  who  were  but  partially  in 
structed  that  this  splendid  gayety  was  but  the  effect 
of  decay,  it  has  appeared  more  brilliantly  beautiful 
than  any  European  scenery;  and  from  them  it  has 
called  forth  exclamations  of  raptured  surprise.  In 
deed,  were  it  not  for  the  ideas  of  decay  and  death 


18        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 


which  such  scenes  create,  nothing  could  equal  their 
brilliancy. 

By  the  first  of  September,  the  gay  green  of  sum 
mer  assumes  a  dark  and  sombre  shade.  That  bright 
hue,  so  peculiarly  characteristic  of  youth  with  all  its 
hopes,  has  darkened  to  the  tinge  of  sober  age,  and  the 
first  feeling  of  the  approach  of  decay  strikes  upon  the 
heart  with  a  knell  too  solemn  to  be  misunderstood, 
while  in  sad  premonition,  a  rustling  leaf,  untimely 
torn  from  its  stem,  flutters  in  the  blast. 

Let  but  a  single  frost  pass  over  this  dark  green 
wood,  and  how  changed  !  From  the  most  sombre 
hues  of  thoughtful  age,  how  sudden  the  transition  to 
the  gayest  green  and  brightest  yellow,  while  beauty 
and  brilliancy  smile,  once  more,  over  the  prospect. 

The  birch  is  the  first  tree  to  fade,  or  rather  to  re 
new  its  beauty,  and  it  now  shines  in  a  yellow  dress, 
harmonizing,  with  surprising  exactness,  to  the  green 
around.  The  monarch  oak  still  reaches  forth  his 
giant  arms,  in  all  their  gnarled  and  twisted  contortions, 
covered  with  the  same  dark  garment :  many  frosts 
are  needed  to  decorate  that  robe.  The  varieties  of 
maple  are  early  in  their  change.  On  a  sloping  hill, 
covered  with  various  forest  trees,  you  can  perceive 
their  almost  golden  spots,  specking  the  dark  green 
mount,  like  some  gay  island  on  the  green  ocean's 


OR,   TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  19 

wave.  While  to  harmonize  the  coloring,  the  brown 
seared  walnut  skirts  the  forest,  "blending  its  hues 
with  the  light  green  chestnut  leaf,  and  the  darksome 
oak. 

In  a  few  weeks,  or,  if  a  severe  frost  succeeds,  a 
few  days,  the  appearance  of  the  same  sloping  hill  will 
be  still  more  splendid, — the  walnut  has  a  still  darker 
frown, — the  oak  holds  his  crown  of  green, — the  chest 
nut  flings  to  the  passing  breeze  its  long  and  light 
brown  leaves, — the  poplar  rears  its  yellow  head, 
sparsely  scattered  o'er  the  wood, — while  the  brightest 
red  paints  the  large  maple  leaves,  and  flings  an  almost 
meteoric  glare  over  these  scenes  of  decay  and  death  ; 
and,  as  the  morning  sun  shines  o'er  the  brilliant  pros 
pect,  the  whole  seems  like  some  fairy  land,  decked 
with  the  flowers  of  plenty,  and  blazoned  with  unde- 
caying  beauty. 

Co.uld  we  but  for  one  little  hour  forget  ourselves 
— so  lovely  is  the  "  rapture  of  repose  that's  there" — 
so  bright  the  smile  of  lingering,  slow-paced  death,  we 
should  at  once  indulge  the  hope  that  it  might  be  ever 
thus — but  in  vain.  The  work  of  death  goes  on. 
More  and  more  frequent  is  the  leaf  '  borne  off  by  the 
blast,'  and  more  and  more  brown  is  the  hue  of  the 
forest. 

Sometimes,  if  the  October  is  serene,  and  free  from 


20        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

wind  and  frost,  this  splendid  mixture  of  red  <ind  yel 
low,  and  green  and  brown,  continues  to  deck  tliu  forest 
for  weeks,  but  now  often  have  we  seen  this  splendid 
sight,  gazed  upon  by  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
as  if  they  sorrowed  in  taking  leave  of  its  brilliancy, 
in  one  night  ruined  by  the  storm  that  swept  over  it, 
and,  the  next  morning,  showing  none  of  those  varied 
and  beautiful  tints  which  glowed  in  the  evening  sky. 
A  uniform  brown  gloomily  frowned  over  the  whole 
scene,  save  the  light  yellow  spots  of  the  poplar,  and 
the  dark  red  of  the  high  oak.  In  a  few  more  days, 
every  brown  leaf  is  prostrated  on  the  earth,  and  the 
blast  sighs  as  it  passes  through  the  bare  boughs. 

Through  the  whole  of  this  change,  so  much  like 
the  pleasures  of  this  world,  one  uniformity  is  perceiv 
able — one  tree  stands  untoucned  by  the  frosts  and 
storms,  and  stretches  far  its  dark  green  head  above 
the  destruction  around  it.  It  is  the  evergreen  pine, 
directing,  like  the  hope  of  eternity  which  it  resem 
bles,  its  undecaying  top  towards  heaven,  unseen  amid 
the  bright  green  of  prosperity's  summer,  but  well 
distinguished  when  the  storms  of  adversity's  autumn 
strip  earthly  pleasures  of  their  foliage. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  annual  splendor  that 
our  tale  commences. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  21 


CHAPTER  III. 


two  sons  they  had : 


Two  olive  branches  round  their  table  grew ; 
Nourished  in  growth  by  mother's  smiles  and  tears, 
And  checked  by  father's  frowns. 

Old  Play. 

OUR  story  opens  on  the  east  brink  of  the  small 
stream  that  runs  through  the  city  of  Hartford. 
There  is  a  ledge  of  high  rocks,  forming  the  brow  of 
the  hill  over  which  Washington-street  runs,  at  the 
foot  of  which  the  river,  or  the  brook,  as  it  might  then 
be  called,  wound  sluggishly  along,  until  it  precipi 
tated  itself  over  a  ledge 'of  rocks,  where  now  stands 
the  dam  of  the  Flouring  Mill.  A  heavy  growth  of 
large  timber  covered  the  ledge,  and  extended  to  the 
very  brink  of  the  rivulet,  while  in  the  low  glades  of 
the  opposite  bank,  the  scattered  trunks  left  a  more 


22        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

open  prospect,  and  indicated  that  the  spring  floods 
had  deadened  the  lower  limbs  and  the  brushwood. 

On  a  jutting  rock,  beneath  the  arms  of  a  huge 
oak,  there  reclined  two  youths,  whose  ages  might  be 
from  eighteen  to  twenty-one,  in  that  careless  or  reck 
less  manner  which  showed  no  apprehension  of  danger 
from  roving  Indians,  and  indicated  their  satiety  in 
the  pursuit  of  game.  Their  fowling-pieces  leaned 
against  the  oak;  over  the  muzzles  of  which  were  flung 
two  strings  of  the  small  game,  of  which  they  had 
been  in  search,  consisting  of  hares,  squirrels,  par 
tridges,  quails,  &c.  A  large  hound  lay  at  their  feet 
in  a  lazy  attitude,  watching  languidly  the  movements 
of  his  masters,  who  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  leave 
their  situation,  though  the  sun  was  now  verging  to 
wards  the  horizon,  and  cast  a  checkered  light  upon 
the  brown  rock  and  green  turf  around  them. 

It  was  early  October,  and  the  woods  were  begin 
ning  to  lose  their  solemn  green  for  the  livelier  color 
of  decay.  As  the  young  men  sat,  they  could  notice 
the  variegated  hues  of  the  scattered  trees  in  the  oppo 
site  valley  and  on  the  rocky  and  oak-covered  slope  of 
the  neighboring  hill.  The  air  was  still,  and  the  tread 
of  the  cautious  squirrel  on  the  dry  leaves  sounded 
distinct  across  the  intervening  distance. 

The  dress  of  the  young  men  was  something  simi- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  23 

lar.  It  consisted  of  a  doublet,  or  outer,  coat-like  gar 
ment,  open  from  the  neck  to  the  middle,  made  of 
coarse  woollen,  dyed  in  the  dingy  brown  derived  from 
the  juice  of  the  butternut  or  other  simple  pigments 
which  the  forest  supplied.  It  had  no  collar,  other 
than  a  mere  seam,  and  was  decorated  with  a  row  of 
large  buttons,  as  far  as  it  opened,  and  confined 
around  the  waist  with  a  belt  or  sash.  The  inner  vest 
was  of  the  same  material,  as  were  the  nether  garments. 
Their  simple  equipage  was  completed  by  the  hat  with 
its  steeple  crown,  and  the  flexible  boots  with  their 
wide  tops  so  constructed  as  to  fall  in  a  roll  around 
the  calf  of  the  leg,  but  were  capable  of  being  drawn 
up  and  tied  over  the  knee,  for  duty  on  horseback,  or 
for  the  more  rapid  passage  through  the  morass  and 
tangled  brushwood. 

Though  there  was  a  great  similarity  in  the  dress 
of  these  youths,  yet  a  careful  observer  might  have 
readily  traced  such  a  difference  as  could  have  fur 
nished  some  clue  to  their  characters.  The  difference 
of  their  ages  would  of  necessity  give  some  diversity 
to  the  expression  of  their  countenances,  and  in  the 
tendencies  of  their  moral  habits.  The  face  of  the 
eldest  youth  was  sedate,  sober,  considerate,  contem 
plative — all  of  which  was  manifested  in  the  calm 
brow,  pale  cheek,  compressed  lips,  and  clear,  open 


24        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

eye.  That  of  the  younger  brother — for  that  they 
were  brothers  the  strong  family  resemblance  indi 
cated — was  impulsive,  ardent,  excitable,  independent, 
perhaps  ungovernable,  which  was  plainly  taught  by 
the  flushed  brow,  the  florid  cheek,  the  thick  lip,  and 
the  haughty  gaze  of  the  bright,  restless  eye.  The 
stern  sobriety  of  the  Puritan  was  readily  seen  in  the 
perfect  simplicity  of  attire,  and  entire  freedom  from 
ornament  of  the  eldest.  But,  though  coarse  and 
rough,  his  garments  showed  that  a  mother's  hand  and 
a  mother's  eye  had  formed  the  habits  of  neatness  and 
order  in  the  young  man's  mind,  and  taught  him  that 
the  rigid  simplicity  of  Puritanic  clothing  was  no 
apology  for  dirt  or  disarrangement. 

Is  there  not  a  connection  between  purity  of  mind 
and  neatness  of  attire  ?  Does  not  the  latter  become 
the  natural,  external  exponent  of  the  former  ?  We 
believe  so.  There  is  an  ornamental,  finical  particu 
larity  that  is  called  neatness,  that  does  not,  of  neces 
sity,  prove  the  reigning  purity  of  the  heart,  but  rather 
indicates  that  vanity,  the  love  of  admiration,  and  the 
desire  for  display  are  the  governing  traits.  But  no 
one  ever  comes  in  contact  with  that  loveliest  of  all 
God's  creations,  a  pure  mind,  without  seeing,  instan 
taneously,  that  purity  shining  out  in  every  external 
appendage — simple,  perhaps  severe — but  still  in  en- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  25 

tiro  keeping  with  the  character  within.  Such  was 
Edward  Dudley,  the  eldest  of  the  two  youths  who 
are  now  before  us. 

In  the  dress  of  the  youngest,  there  was  the  plain 
ness  and  simplicity  which  the  habits  of  the  people, 
the  poverty  of  the  colonists,  and  the  instructions  of 
parents  would  create,  but  an  evident  leaning  towards 
some  ornamental  exhibition.  As  he  sat  under  the 
tree,  he  unbuckled  the  long  rolled  tops  of  his  boots, 
and  disposed  of  them  in  graceful  folds  around  his 
well-formed  limbs — an  act  which  his  brother  evident 
ly  deferred  to  the  period  of  night  and  rest.  He 
carefully  brushed  his  hat,  to  clear  it  of  all  the  dust 
and  scratches  it  had  received  in  his  ramble  through 
the  forest.  He  brought  the  broader  or  flapped  part 
of  the  brim  more  on  one  side,  and  looped  it  higher  to 
give  a  smarter  air  to  his  beautiful  countenance,  and 
he  even,  while  turning  it  around,  seemed  to  regret 
that  he  had  left  at  home,  for  his  rough  hunting  expe 
dition,  the  English  buckle  which  had  ornamented  it. 

It  was  evident  that  the  eldest  brother  felt  that  all 
these  attentions  to  the  ornaments  of  his  apparel  arose 
from  some  concealed  motive,  and  gravely  said,  "  Me- 
thinks,  Henry,  you  have  some  other  design  after  this 
hard  day's  hunting  than  to  spend  the  approaching 


26        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

evening,  and  Saturday  evening  too,  under  your  father's 
roof." 

The  younger  slightly  colored  at  the  intimation, 
but  soon  raised  his  head  haughtily,  and,  looking  into 
his  brother's  face,  replied:  "If  I  have,  why  should 
you  heed  it,  or  interfere  in  that  which  does  not  con 
cern  you  ?  " 

"  Nay,  iny  dear  brother,  it  does  concern  me.  I 
know  too  well  the  desires  of  our  parents,  and  their 
commands  even,  not  to  check  you  when  erring,  though 
I  do  it  with  a  brother's  love." 

"  My  father's  commands  !  True  :  but  why  doth 
he  lay  such  strict  commands  on  us  at  our  advanced 
age,  not  to  be  absent  after  nightfall,  especially  on 
Saturday  evening,  and  not  to  visit  at  some  particular 
houses  ?  Can  he  not  trust  us  ?  " 

"  Our  father  never  does  any  thing  unreasonable 
or  harsh.  The  Bible  and  the  magistrates  both  ex 
hort  us  to  implicit  obedience.  You  need  not  chafe 
at  the  word  obedience.  He,  undoubtedly,  has  wise 
reasons  of  his  own  for  refusing  to  allow  you  to  visit  at 
Captain  Seymour's.  The  magistrates  have  the  same 
good  reasons  for  their  requisitions,  that  all  the  inhab 
itants  should  be  safely  housed  before  the  bell  tolls 
the  hour  of  nine.  And,  as  for  Saturday  night,  you 
well  know  that  the  Bible  considers  the  Sabbath  as 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  27 

commencing  at  sundown  of  the  day  before.  The  sav 
ages,  too,  are  dangerous,  and  are  more  particularly 
prowling  near  the  settlement  in  the  dark  hour.  Be 
sides,  our  father  does  not  wish  that  any  children  of 
his  should  be  the  first  to  break  those  strict  rules  of 
ward  and  watch,  which  he  himself  has  so  loudly  advo 
cated,  and,  as  one  of  the  magistrates,  must  enforce. 
He  would  not  have  it  said  that  the  noble  blood  of 
Dudley  would  not,  in  the  wilderness,  be  submissive  to 
the  very  laws  which  he  recommends  for  those  of  lower 
origin,  or  that  his  children  should  rebel  against  the 
supremacy  of  Law,  to  establish  which,  he  came  into 
this  savage  wilderness  ;  or  that  his  sons  should  resist 
the  authority  of  that  Religion,  for  the  free  observance 
of  which  he  sought  these  wilds." 

"  Edward,  Edward,  you  irritate  me  by  these  very 
reasons.  Why  must  I  be  called  upon  so  constantly 
to  submit  to  these  plebeian  regulations  and  infringe 
ments  of  my  liberty  as  the  son  of  a  gentleman  ?  By 
Heaven,  I  will  not !  Besides,  Edward,  what  right 
have  you  to  suppose  I  intend  going  to  Captain  Sey 
mour's  ?  Have  you  been  sneakingly  inquiring  into 
my  affairs  ?  " 

The  elder  brother  paid  no  attention  to  this  ques 
tion,  but  calmly  replied  :  "  Nay,  nay,  dear  Henry, 
make  use  of  no  oath  on  the  occasion ;  it  is  against  the 


28        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  j 

laws  both  of  God  and  the  settlements.  Lay  aside  a 
spirit  which  will  be  sure  to  entail  trouble  upon  you, 
and  bring  our  parents'  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
But,  let  us  haste.  We  shall  be  late  for  supper  and 
the  evening's  devotions." 

"  Brother,"  said  Henry,  as  he  arose,  "  as  for  our 
father's  hairs  being  brought  in  sorrow  to  the  grave  on 
my  account,  I  fully  believe  there  is  not  affection  and 
feeling  enough  in  his  stern  heart  to  allow  a  pang  to 
rend  it,  even  if  I  lay  in  my  winding-sheet  before 
him." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Henry,  you  know  not  our  father 
aright.  But  you  cannot  say  the  same  of  our 
mother." 

A  shade  of  uneasiness  passed  over  the  haughty, 
but  beautiful,  face  of  the  youth,  as  his  brother  spoke, 
and  he  pursued  the  rest  of  his  way  in  silence,  evident 
ly  with  conflicting  views  in  his  thoughts.  They 
crossed  the  river  by  the  shallow  ford  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hill  where  High-street  now  runs,  and  were  prepar 
ing  to  take  the  path  which  led  along  the  north  bank 
of  the  Little  River,  when  Henry,  suddenly  turning, 
gave  his  game  to  his  brother,  and,  with  a  flushed 
face,  exclaimed :  "  I  will  not  return  now.  I  will  be 
with  you  long  before  nine.  I  am  ready  to  brave  the 
punishment  both  of  the  magistrates  and  my  father, 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


29 


rather  than  relinquish  my  object.     Nay,  detain  me 
not.     I  am  resolved." 

So  saying,  he  burst  from  his  brother,  notwith 
standing  his  efforts  to  hinder,  and  took  the  hunter's 
path  that  had  been  formed  along  the  banks  of  the 
small  brook  that  there  entered  the  river,  the  densely- 
timbered  borders  of  which  soon  hid  him  from  view. 


30        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  IV. 

They  do  say,  Ealph,  that  he  is  so  cross  a  man  that  he  never  loved 
in  his  life.    Do  you  think  it  is  true  ? 

Ralph.    True  1  no ;  hasn't  he  two  children  ? 

Old  Play. 

BEFORE  we  follow  the  fortunes  of  either  brother,  a 
few  words  are  necessary  respecting  their  parents. 

Colonel  Thomas  Dudley  was  one  of  the  earliest 
settlers  in  Hartford,  and  enjoyed  an  enviable  reputa 
tion  in  the  infant  colony.  He  was  descended  from  a 
noble  family  in  England,  whose  members  had  been 
prominent  in  English  history.  His  early  life  had 
been  like  that  of  the  Cavaliers  of  the  day,  thought 
less  and  dissipated.  A  sudden  and  mournful  event 
had  checked  the  progress  of  his  vice,  and  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  future  interests  of  his  soul.  In  due 
time,  he  became  noted  among  the  Puritan  leaders  by 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  31 

the  extraordinary  contrast  the  present  austerity  of  his 
character  bore  to  his  former  excesses.  His  religion 
was  stern  and  unbending,  and  he  exercised  but  little 
charity  towards  those  whose  youthful  faults  and  fol 
lies  were  like  his  own.  He  married  a  woman  of  his 
own  rank  in  life,  of  amiable,  mild,  yielding  virtues — 
so  submissive  to  a  man  that  she  loved,  that  she  felt  it 
not  only  a  duty  but  a  pleasure  to  follow  him  in  the 
same  religious  steps.  The  world,  who  only  saw  the 
stern,  outward  virtues  of  the  husband,  wondered  how 
a  "  tender  and  true  "  woman  could  love  him.  But  she 
did  love  him,  and  that  with  an  ardent  devotion  that 
seemed  almost  adoration.  She  often  felt  that  her 
intense  love  was  the  only  cloud  between  God  and  her 
soul.  Sometimes  she  shuddered  as  she  perceived  his 
image  rising  up  before  her.  as  if  it  were  the  idol  to 
which  she  prayed.  Were  they  then  ill-matched  ? 

But  Thomas  Dudley's  soul  was  not  all  granite. 
Like  many  excellent  men  of  his  stern,  unyielding 
character,  there  was  in  his  heart  of  hearts  a  never- 
failing  fount  of  tenderness  and  true  affection.  It 
seldom  welled  up  to  the  surface.  It  did  not  even 
show  its  hidden  existence  by  the  green  which  its 
moisture  caused  to  spring  forth  on  the  surrounding 
soil.  But  it  was  there.  He  heard,  himself,  the  voice 
of  its  clear  bubblings  within  him,  and  was  cheered  by 


32        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

its  refreshing  power — cheered  in  his  hard,  cold,  toil 
some  pilgrimage.  She  knew  it,  too ;  and  as  she  drew 
close  to  that  manly  breast,  felt  the  beatings  of  the 
heart  within,  and  knew  that  its  pulses  were  for  her. 
But  he  never  spoke  his  love  or  his  paternal  affection. 
No  words  of  endearment  ever  passed  his  lips.  No 
danger,  or  sickness,  or  unhappiness  of  his  loved  ones 
ever  drew  out  one  word  of  comfort,  or  encouragement, 
or  affection.  None  but  his  God  received  the  tribute 
of  his  lips. 

The  same  sternness  that  appeared  in  his  private 
and  religious  character  was  carried  into  his  public 
relations.  He  knew  his  duty,  and  performed  it. 
Commendation  drew  out  no  lines  of  exultation  on  his 
cold,  calm  face.  Censure  drew  no  furrows  on  his 
rigid  brow.  He  was  a  republican  to  those  beneath 
him,  but  still  retained  enough  of  his  early  aristocrat- 
ical  haughtiness  to  feel  that  he  had  no  superiors. 

The  peculiar  sentiment  of  hostility  which  King 
Charles  felt  to  all  those  of  noble  families  who  had 
joined  his  enemies,  was  the  means  of  Dudley's  early 
expatriation.  On  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut,  he 
had  sought  for  that  peace  and  security  which  he  could 
not  enjoy  at  home  for  the  maintenance  of  his  political 
rights,  and  the  uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  his  reli 
gion.  His  fortune  had  been  sufficient  to  enable  him 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES  AGO.  33 

to  collect  around  him  as  many  comforts  as  his  neigh 
bors  enjoyed.  Here,  for  several  years,  had  he  lived, 
with  his  wife  and  two  children,-  laboring  hard  for  the 
common  necessaries  of  life,  and  using  the  power  of  his 
intellect  and  the  weight  of  his  character  to  build  up 
and  perfect  the  growing  community  around  him. 

We  have  already  given  the  reader,  we  are  afraid 
too  plain  a  map  of  the  character  of  our  PURITAN,  and 
must  permit  his  other  and  minor  traits,  or  the  work 
ing  of  those  we  have  enumerated,  to  develope  them 
selves  as  we  proceed. 

To  go  on  with  our  tale :  Edward  stood  long  and 
anxiously  watching  the  retreating  form  of  his  brother, 
and  when  he  lost  sight  of  him  amid  the  clumps  of  the 
alders  that  covered  the  banks  of  the  brook,  he  sighed 
audibly — and  then,  raising  his  eyes  devoutly  to  hea 
ven,  exclaimed,  "  May  God  protect  him,  and  give 
him  a  more  docile  disposition!"  Stooping,  he  at 
tached  his  brother's  game  to  his  own,  and  flinging  it 
over  his  shoulders,  seized  his  gun  and  commenced  his 
walk  along  the  north  bank  of  the  Little  River. 

He  soon  came  up  to  the  place  on  the  road  to  the 
mill,  where  the   ordinary  daily  sentinel  was  posted,: 
who  hailed  him  as  he  passed  with  the  inquiry,  "What 
luck? — but   I    see — well,   that's   doing   pretty  well. 
Howsever,  I  had   better  luck   last    Saturday  week. 


34        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ] 

You  know  my  old  gun,  Eddy.  I  used  to  let  you 
shoot  with  it  when  you  was  a  boy. — Well,  I  started 
out  with  that,  and  had  gone  down  in  the  path  to 
Wethersfield,  almost  to  the  Folly,  meaning  to  turn 
out  there,  and  follow  the  worn  brook  down  to  the 
swamp — But  how's  this — how's  this,  Eddy? — your 
brother — where's  Henry  ? — he  went  with  you.  I 
must  know  and  report  all  goings  out  and  all  comings 
in — that's  the  way  my  commission  reads,  and  that's 
the  way  (governor  Haynes  told  me  to  do.  "Where's 
Henry?" 

"Good  Mr.  Bull—" 

"  Corporal  Bull,  if  you  please.     I'm  no  Mister." 

"  Good  Corporal  Bull,  be  not  harsh.  My  brother 
left  me  at  the  Gully  Brook." 

"  Where  gone  ?  where  gone  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  Corporal  Bull,  and  I  do  not  know 
as  I  should  inform  you  if  I  did.  You  are  exceeding 
your  instructions." 

"  Heyday,  Mr.  Malapert,  who  told  you  to  instruct 
your  betters  ?  But  come,  come,  Eddy,  you  are  a 
brave  lad,  and  will  be  a  credit  to  the  colony  when 
you  have  remained  in  Jericho  long  enough  for  your 
beard  to  grow.  I  have  been  with  you  too  often  not 
to  know  that  there  is  more  calm  bravery,  and  cool, 
prudent  action  in  that  slow-moving  body  and  quiet 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  '35 

face  of  yours,  than  in  any  lad  of  the  town.  I  love  a 
bold  brave  man,  and  a  bold  brave  lad.  You  are  both, 
but  you  need  rousing  !  You  need  rousing  ! " 

"  But  I  must  go  on,  Master  Corporal  Bull ;  the 
sun  is  near  setting,  and  I  have  my  game  to  dress 
before  the  Sabbath  begins." 

"  Whist,  whist,  youngster ;  why  must  you  be  al 
ways  talking  ?  Where's  your  brother  ?  where's  Hen 
ry  ?  You  know  it  is  a  part  of  my  commission  and 
orders  to  make  all  necessary  inquiries  concerning  all 
who  enter  or  leave,  '  of  all  the  in-comings  and  out 
goings  : '  these  were  Governor  Haynes'  own  words, 
and  I  must  know  where  your  brother  is?" 

"  He  left  me,  as  I  told  you,  at  the  Gully  Brook. 
Where  he  has  gone  I  do  not  certainly  know,  though 
I  can  conjecture.  Your  authority,  however,  does  not 
allow  you  to  do  more  than  merely  to  collect  facts,  not 
to  ask  reasons." 

"  I  always  heard  that  they  intended  to  make  you 
a  lawyer,  and  I  see  you  begin  already  with  your 
whys  and  your  wherefores.  But,  Eddy,  lad,  you  are 
a  bold  and  brave  lad,  and  I  love  you.  I  am  correct 
in  asking,  for  I  saw  several  Indians  skulking  along  in 
the  direction  of  the  Cow  Pasture,  and  I  feel  troubled. 
But  here  is  some  one  else  coming.  Go  on,  lad, 
go  on." 


36         THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

Edward  walked  on  rapidly,  with  not  a  little  addi 
tion  to  the  weight  upon  his  mind,  by  the  only  real 
information  he  had  gathered  from  the  worthy  Corpo 
ral,  who,  though  well  known  for  his  garrulity  through 
the  whole  community,  was  a  brave  and  useful  soldier, 
and  made  himself  famous  in  the  subsequent  history 
of  the  colony. 

A  few  minutes'  longer  walk  brought  him  round 
to  the  little  wooden  bridge  that  then  crossed  the  Lit 
tle  River  on  the  road  to  Wethersfield,  not  far  from 
the  present  termination  of  Prospect  street.  Near 
this  bridge  stood  his  father's  small  framed  house,  a 
neighbor  to  that  of  Rev.  Mr.  Hooker,  the  godly  min 
ister  of  the  colony.  Edward  entered  the  back  yard, 
and  went  round  at  once  where  he  could  commence 
the  preparation  of  his  game.  He  did  this,  partly 
because  the  sun  was  near  the  horizon  on  Saturday 
evening,  and  he  feared  lest  holy  time  should  com 
mence  before  he  had  completed  his  labor;  and, 
partly,  to  put  off  as  long  as  possible  the  inquiry  that 
he  knew  his  father  would  make  respecting  the  absence 
of  his  brother. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  37 


CHAPTER   V. 

What  power  creeps  in, 
Like  the  sly  serpent  into  Paradise, 
To  poison  all  our  joys  ?    'Tis  worse  than  death ; 
Worse  than  disease,  the  famine,  or  the  plague. 
It  leaves  its  withering  touch  o'er  every  plant 
Of  human  bliss  that  blossom'd  in  our  bower: 
'Tis  Sin. 

The  Old  Man. 

A  MOTHER'S  impulses  are  soon  alarmed.  It  may  be 
called  presentiment,  but  we  are  rather  inclined  to 
attribute  it  to  the  delicate  maternal  instinct,  which 
gives  an  intuitive  warning  that  something  is  wrong. 
She  was  soon  in  the  outhouse,  where  Edward  sat, 
rather  pensively  and  slowly  finishing  the  dressing  of 
his  game,  and  inquired  for  Henry. 

"  Mother,  he  left  me  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gully 
Brook,  and  I  saw  him  last,  forcing  his  way  through 
the  low  alders  and  blackberry  bushes  on  its  banks." 


38        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

"  You  know  where  he  has  gone  ? " 

"  Mother,  I  do  not  know,  except  from  conjecture." 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  that  conjecture  ? " 

"  It  is  my  brother's  secret ;  I  am  "bound,  mother, 
in  honor  to  keep  it." 

"  I  do  not  wish,  my  son,  to  weaken  the  ties  of 
honor  or  what  was  once  chivalry  in  your  heart.  •  You 
came  from  too  noble  a  stock  to  lead  me  to  wish  to 
crush  a  single  sentiment  of  honor  in  you.  But,  Ed 
ward  dear,  your  father  will  think  differently,  and  will 
demand  an  answer." 

"  I  know  my  duty,  mother,  and  I  trust  God  will 
enable  me  to  perform  it.  What  I  shall  do  in  any 
given  conjuncture,  I  leave  for  His  decision.  I  never 
form  plans  beforehand.  In  the  hour  of  trial,  Grod 
will  direct." 

"  Amen,  my  dear  son ;  would  that  your  brother 
was  governed  by  the  same  principle,  and  possessed 
the  same  self-control." 

Edward  did  not  meet  his  father  until  the  hour  for 
supper  had  arrived.  He  took  his  stand  by  his  chair 
at  the  family  board.  His  father  looked  at  the  empty 
seat  of  his  youngest  son,  and  frowned.  But  not  a 
word  was  spoken  until  the  long  blessing  was  pro 
nounced  over  the  food  in  a  standing  posture  ;  and 
then,  the  chairs  being  taken,  Colonel  Dudley  com- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  39 

menced :  "  Where  is  your  brother,  my  son  ?  why  is 
he  absent  from  the  family  meal,  and  away  from  the 
town  after  the  Sabbath  has  commenced1?" 

There  was  a  calm,  severe  solemnity  in  the  tones, 
which  partook  not  in  the  least  of  irritability,  but 
savored  strongly  of  deliberate  determination  to  en 
force  parental  authority,  coolly  and  resolutely.  The 
same  thing  was  expressed  in  the  high  white  forehead, 
cold  gray  eye,  large  shaggy  eyebrows,  bloodless  cheek, 
and  firm  closed  lip.  Edward  gave  the  same  answer 
that  he  had  previously  done  to  his  mother. 

His  father  looked  at  him,  while  speaking,  with  a 
penetrating  glance :  "  I  have  taught  my  sons  to  speak 
the  truth,  and  I  believe  you,  Edward ;  but  it  is 
strange  that  Henry  should  have  ehosen  for  his  even 
ing  rambles  such  an  unfrequented  and  dangerous 
route,  contrary  both  to  my  regulations,  and  those  of 
the  magistrates  of  the  town.  His  leave  of  absence 
was  only  for  hunting,  and  that  to  expire  at  the  going 
down  of  the  sun.  Where  has  he  gone?  Knowest 
thou,  Edward?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  his  movements,  for  he  refused 
to  tell  me." 

"  But  you  can  conjecture.  What  is  your  opinion? 
Tell  me  at  once." 

"  Father,  it  is  a  case  of  conscience  with  me.    Why 


40        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

should  I  be  called  upon  to  repeat  conjectures  that 
are  probably  baseless?  Besides,  it  is  my  brother's 
secret,  and  honor  forbids  the  tale." 

"  Honor  ! — an  empty  bubble,  fit  only  to  be  played 
with  by  courtiers  and  children  in  Charles's  court. 
The  laws  of  honor  are  as  arbitrary  as  they  are  falla 
cious.  The  only  true  honor  comethfrom  God  alone." 
So  saying,  the  father  raised  his  eyes  fervently  to 
heaven.  "  A  case  of  conscience,  ha !  Conscience 
should  teach,  as  the  word  of  Jehovah  does,  implicit 
obedience  to  parents." 

"  Father,  you  know  that  I  have  always  obeyed 
you  in  all  things.  I  know  and  feel  my  duty  in  that 
holy  relation." 

The  father  was  slightly  softened  by  this  deference 
of  his  eldest  born,  whose  character  was  so  much  after 
his  approbation,  but  not  a  shade  of  that  softened  feel 
ing  was  written  on  his  face. 

"  Must  I  command  you  to  obey  ?  " 

"  In  obedience  to  that  command,  then,  father,  I 
can  conjecture  that  he  has  taken  that  route,  as  the 
less  observed  one  to  the  dwelling  of  Capt.  Seymour, 
who  resides,  as  you  know,  some  distance  to  the  west 
of  the  Cow  Pasture." 

Col.  Dudley  started,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
conversation,  a  shade  of  indignation  tinged  his  cheek. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  41 

His  voice  almost  trembled  in  its  rage,  as  lie  hissed 
out,  rather  than  uttered,  "  Has  not  the  boy  forgotten 
his  childish  passion  for  that  girl  ?  My  curse — " 

"  Hush  1  hush  !  dearest,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  re 
member  he  is  your  son." 

"  Woman,  be  quiet.  I  tell  thee  that,  sooner  than 
see  him  the  husband  of  Jane  Seymour,  I  would  pre 
fer  to  follow  him  to  the  grave." 

"  Oh,  husband,  this  is  dreadful !  "  and  the  mother, 
like  most  women  in  such  a  storm,  took  refuge  in  tears. 

"  But,  father,"  modestly  interrupted  Edward, 
"  you  once  permitted  us  to  mingle  with  Capt.  Sey 
mour's  family,  and  to  be  familiar  with  its  inmates." 

"  Son,  be  silent!  You  are  but  adding  fuel  to  the 
fire  you  essay  to  quench.  Let  me  hear  no  more  of 
this.  Your  brother  has  been  guilty  of  a  grievous 
fault,  and  great  must  the  chastisement  be." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  during  the  com 
fortless  meal.  The  red  spot  soon  died  away  on  Col. 
Dudley's  cheek,  and  the  stern,  cold,  gloomy  look  suc 
ceeded,  rendered  still  more  wintry  and  granite-like 
than  before. 

The  time  for  the  evening  worship  had  arrived. 
The  family  were  seated  around  the  log  fire  on-  the 
great  hearth,  which  the  coldness  of  the  evenings  in  the 
early  autumn  demanded.  Col.  Dudley  selected  for 


42        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

the  evening  exhortation  to  his  family  the  story  of  the 
life,  rebellion,  and  death  of  Absalom.  Severe  were 
the  rules  of  parental  authority  that  he  laid  down  in 
his  comments  on  this  portion  of  Scripture  history, 
and  much  did  he  expatiate  on  the  punishment  due  to 
rebellious  children.  The  solemn  yearnings  of  David's 
heart  over  the  death  of  his  wayward  son,  where  the 
slighted  monarch  forgets  his  rebellion,  and  the  out 
raged  father  remembers  no  more  the  unnatural  crimes 
of  the  guilty  son,  but  pours  out  the  grief  of  an  afflicted 
soul,  in  the  mournful  exclamation,  "  Oh,  Absalom, 
my  son,  my  son  !  would  God  I  had  died  for  thee!" 
— all  this  tenderness  of  paternal  grief  had  no  apparent 
effect  upon  our  Puritan's  heart.  He  read  it  as  if  he 
were  above  such  earthly  feelings.  But  his  son  was 
not  lying  dead  before  him,  and  the  smart  of  despised 
authority  and  disobeyed  commands  was  still  stinging 
his  spirit. 

The  mother,  however,  wept  silently  as  she  shroud 
ed  her  face  from  the  light ;  while  Edward  sat  with 
his  pale,  mournful  brow,  from  which  all  emotion  but 
solemnity  had  been  banished  by  an  effort  that  showed 
he  inherited  his  father's  self-control. 

The  prayer  that  succeeded  was  less  vindictive 
than  the  exhortation,  as  if  the  intercourse  commenced 
with  God,  required  the  banishment  of  those  irritated 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  43 

feelings  of  the  father.  Still,  as  he  approached,  in  the 
usual  range  of  topics,  the  circumstances  of  his  family, 
he  plead  for  the  restoration  and  forgiveness  of  his 
erring  son,  and  that  he  might  return  to  his  home,  like 
the  prodigal  of  the  Gospel. 


44        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Justice.  The  magistrates  are  reverend,  grave,  and  quiet  men,  neighbor 
Sly ;  they  will  do  you  no  harm. 

Sly.  It  may  be  so:  but  what  business  have  reverend,  grave,  and  quiet 
men  in  my  house,  at  this  time  of  night  ? 

Old  Play. 

THE  long  services  were  just  ended  when  a  loud  rap 
ping  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  three  staid,  dignified- 
looking  gentlemen,  entered  the  room.  Col.  Dudley 
arose  at  their  entrance,  and  greeted  them  formally  as 
Gov.  Haynes,  Rev.  Mr.  Hooker,  and  Deacon  Nichols. 
Looking  surprised  at  the  rather  unusual  visit,  consid 
ering  the  time  of  the  week,  he  requested  his  visitors 
to  be  seated,  when  Gov.  Haynes,  with  bland  but  se 
vere  courtesy,  requested  a  private  interview.  In  ac 
cordance  with  the  request,  Madam  Dudley  and  her 
son  sought  some  other  apartment. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  45 

Gov.  Haynes  commenced  :  "  Colonel  Dudley,  we 
have  always  looked  to  you  as  a  man  who,  by  himself 
and  his  family,  would  constantly  support  the  legal 
authorities  of  our  rising  republic.  Your  station  as  a 
magistrate  would  have  warranted  this  expectation,  as 
well  as  your  character  as  a  man.  How  is  it  then  we 
hear  from  our  worthy  watchman  on  the  mill  road,  the 
faithful  Corporal  Bull,  that  your  youngest  son  did  not 
return  to-night  within  the  settled  limits  at  the  required 
time  ?  " 

Col.  Dudley  was  about  to  speak,  when  Rev.  Mr. 
Hooker  interrupted  :  "  You  are  a  beloved  and  faith 
ful  brother  of  our  church,  Col.  Dudley  ;  how  happens 
it,  then5  that  one  of  your  sons  has  not  been  better 
taught  than  thus  to  set  at  naught  both  magisterial 
and  parental  authority  ?  Methinks  theYe  must  have 
been  some  defective  training  here." 

"  Brethren,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "  you  judge  me 
harshly.  That  my  youngest  son  is  absent,  I  wot. 
That  it  is  against  my  wishes  and  commands,  I  like 
wise  know.  My  evening  exercise  in  my  family  has 
been  upon  the  same  topic.  As  virtuous  and  religious 
Hezekiah  had  a  worthless  and  irreligious  son,  Manas- 
seh,  so  also  have  I  a  reckless,  disobedient  youth,  as 
one  of  the  thorns  in  the  flesh — that  is,  reckless  and 
disobedient  on  this  one  point.  I  have  been  instant, 


46        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES;   ' 

in  season  and  out  of  season,  with  him,  to  but  little 
effect." 

"  We  know  your  zeal  in  the  right  cause,  and  your 
energy  in  your  duty,"  replied  Mr.  Hooker,  "  and  we 
mean  to  make  this  topic  a  subject  of  public  exhorta 
tion  on  the  morrow,  God  willing ;  but  another  sub 
ject  now  awaits  us,  and  our  worthy  brother  in  Christ, 
Deacon  Nichols,  has  something  to  communicate." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the  person  alluded  to, 
"  where  your  son  has  gone  ?  " 

"  My  eldest  born  left  him  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Gully  Brook,  going  up,"  said  the  Colonel,  unwilling 
even  to  mention  the  conjecture  which  had  given  rise 
to  so  much  passion. 

"  So  I  heard,"  replied  the  Deacon,  "  and  I  feel 
alarmed  for  l^s  safety.  Returning  late  from  the  Cow 
Pasture,  I  observed  several  Indians  in  their  war 
paint,  attended  by  that  deceitful  Tunxis,  Samoset, 
with  whom  your  son  has  been  lately  so  familiar." 

Col.  Dudley  started,  and  stepped  at  first  rather 
wildly  to  the  door  by  which  his  wife  and  son  had  de 
parted,  but  hesitated,  and  then  turned  with  perfect 
external  composure  to  his  guests  :  "  What  is  your 
advice?" 

"  In  anticipation  of  what  your  decision  or  wish 
might  be,"  said  the  Governor,  "  I  have  ordered  Ser- ' 


^  OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  47 

geant  Wadsworth  to  call  out  a  platoon  of  the  train 
bands,  with  their  pikes  and  matchlocks,  to  go  in  pur 
suit  immediately ;  and  have  ordered  Capt.  Mason  to 
hold  a  large  body  at  the  central  school-house,  ready 
to  march  at  a  moment's  warning.  In  the  mean  time, 
Sergeant  Wadsworth,  with  whom  the  young  man  is  a 
great  favorite,  wishes  your  eldest  son  to  accompany 
the  scouting  party,  as  being  best  acquainted  with  the 
probable  course  whicl^our  son  took,  and  with  the 
intricacies  of  all  the  forest,  this  side  of  the  Tunxis. 
It  is  true  that  he  has  already  been  enrolled  in  the 
train-bands,  and  his  duty  of  watch  and  ward  assigned 
to-morrow  in  the  Wethersfield  road,  but  I  will  see 
that  his  place  is  supplied,  if  he  accompanies  the  expe 
dition." 

For  an  instant,  a  deeper  shade  of  regret  crossed 
Col.  Dudley's  countenance,  but  the  feeling  of  old 
Jacob  arose,  "  If  I  am  bereaved  of  my  children,  I 
am  bereaved."  The  only  words  that  were  audibly 
uttered  were,  "  Take  him.  and  may  God  be  with  him." 
He  then  opened  the  door  into  the  next  apartment. 

When  Madam  Dudley  and  her  son  found  them 
selves  alone,  Edward  immediately  accosted  his  mo 
ther  :  "  Why,  mother,  does  our  father  feel  so  strongly 
opposed  to  any  connection  of  my  brother  with  Capt. 
Seymours  niece  ?  He  once  permitted  our  visits  there, 


48        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J    • 

and,  you  well  remember  how,  in  her  childhood,  you 
took  an  interest  in  Jane's  improvement,  and  how 
frequently  she  was  here." 

"  Your  father's  reasons,  my  dear  son,  are  many 
of  them  private.  But  you  do  know  that  Capt.  Sey 
mour  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and  has  no  part  nor  lot 
in  the  Christian  church.  He  has  opposed  your 
father  in  the  town  councils,  and  aimed  at  the 
magistracy,  but  was  not  allo\^i  to  be  considered  as  a 
candidate,  because  he  was  not  a  member  of  the  church 
in  good  standing ;  and  he  accuses  your  father  with 
being  the  author  of  the  rule,  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
excluding  him." 

"  Still,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  something  yet 
behind  that  you  do  not  mention.  Such  sudden  out 
bursts  of  excited  feeling  are  exceedingly  rare  with 
him.  This  will  be  a  severe  blow  to  Henry,  for  he 
loves  Jane  Seymour  ardently,  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  untamed  spirit." 

*•  "I  thought  once,  my  son,  that  you  too  were  en 
tangled  by  her  bright  beauty  and  her  gentle  charac 
ter  ;  and  I  thought  her  much  better  fitted  for  a  calm, 
quiet,  contemplative  person  like  yourself." 

The  color  rushed  in  rich  effusion  over  Edward's 
cheek  even  to  his  forehead,  and  a  shade  of  intense  emo 
tion  crossed  his  face,  but  he  replied  calmly :  "  My 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  49 

friends,  I  fear,  will  never  understand  me.  But  I, 
certainly,  my  dear  mother,  will  never  be  in  the  way 
of  my  brother's  happiness.  If  he  has  gone  to  have 
an  interview  with  her,  I  regret  that  he  has  taken  this 
time,  or  has  gone  in  the  night :  he  had  better  have 
taken  the  day-time." 

The  father  now  entered  the  room  with  a  quick 
step  :  "  Edward,"  said  he,  "  it  is  feared  that  your 
brother  is  in  danger.  Indians  have  been  seen,  within 
a  few  hours,  lurking  in  the  direction  which  he  took. 
Governor  Haynes  has  ordered  out  the  train-bands, 
and  is  about  dispatching  Sergeant  Wadsworth  to  find 
their  trail,  if  possible  ;  if  that  cannot  be  done  in  the 
night,  to  follow  the  brook.  He  wishes  you  to  accom 
pany  him  as  a  guide ;  and  accordingly,  Governor 
Haynes  has  detailed  another  man  as  sentinel  to-mor 
row,  near  Coles's,  and  has  authorized  you  to  march 
with  the  party." 

The  utmost  animation  spread  over  the  usually 
calm  face  of  Edward,  as  he  rapidly  proceeded  to 
equip  himself  for  the  expedition.  His  mother  sank 
into  a  chair,  without  strength.  "What,  husband, 
both  in  one  night !  " 

Mr.  Hooker,  who  had  followed,  anticipating  such 
an   effect,  stepped   rapidly  up,  and   commenced   the 
words  of  support  and  comfort.     Any  one  who  had 
3 


50        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

heard  his  tones  of  denunciation  or  of  exhortation  in 
the  pulpit,  would  never  have  recognized  the  low  rich 
voice,  in  its  depth  of  sympathy,  pouring  out  the  balm 
of  the  Gospel's  consolations  into  this  sorrowing  wo 
man's  heart,  and  leading  her  thoughts  to  confidence 
in  her  God. 

During  that  employment  of  the  worthy  minister^ 
the  father  was  assisting  the  son  to  clothe  himself  in 
the  panoply  of  war,  with  untrembling  fingers  and  a 
firm  countenance.  After  some  brief  instructions  from 
Governor  Haynes,  and  a  short  prayer,  or  rather  bless 
ing,  from  Mr.  Hooker,  Edward  sought  the  rendez 
vous,  where  he  was  warmly  received  by  Sergeant 
Wadsworth  and  the  detachment  of  soldiers,  with 
whom  he  was  a  favorite. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  51 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  The  plumage  close  to  the  vulture's  heart  is  soft  as  the  cygnet's  down, 
and,  over  her  unshell'd  brood,  the  murmuring  ring-dove  sits  not  more 

gently." 

Kotzebue. 

COL.  DUDLEY  attended  his  visitors  to  the  door  with 
solemn  courtesy,  and  held  the  candle  in  his  hand  until 
they  had  closed  the  front  gate  of  his  little  yard. 
Not  a  hue  of  emotion  deepened  the  color  of  his  face, 
as  he  bade  his  son  adieu,  and  exchanged  the  formal 
"  God  be  with  you,"  to  his  departing  church  brethren. 
He  silently  and  deliberately  closed  and  barred  the 
door  which  shut  in  himself  and  his  wife ;  entirely  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  As  silently  and  de 
liberately  did  he  place  the  candle  upon  its  stand,  and 
then  turned  round  to  his  wife,  who  sat  audibly  sob 
bing  in  her  chair.  "  Anne,"  said  he,  in  a  tone,  oh, 
how  different  from  the  cold,  stern  tone  of  the  Puritan 
magistrate ! 

The  wife  sprang  up  at  the  voice,  rushed  to  his 


52        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

open  arms,  and  flung  herself,  in  an  agony  of  sorrow, 
on  his  manly  breast.  He  soothed  her  with  the  kind 
est*  words, — directed  her  thoughts  to  God,  to  heaven, 
to  an  overruling  Providence,  to  the  promises  made  to 
those  who  serve  their  Maker.  The  voice  could  not 
have  been  heard  across  the  room,  so  low  were  its 
tones ;  but  their  low,  solemn  richness,  entered  the 
heart  of  the  distressed  mother,  and  calmed  the  agony 
of  her  spirit ;  though  she  still  lay  helpless  and  con 
fiding  on  his  bosom. 

Folding  his  arms  around  her,  he  raised  her,  as  if 
she  had  been  an  infant,  and  carried  her  gently  into 
their  small  bed-room,  which  adjoined  the  common 
sitting-room,  and  laid  her  on  their  humble  couch. 
Kneeling  down  by  her  side,  with  her  hand  in  both  of 
his,  he  prayed  earnestly  and  confidently  for  her,  for 
their  children,  but  not  one  word  for  himself.  No  sel 
fish,  personal  thought,  then  filled  his  heart.  The 
pure  and  holy  love  he  felt  for  her  who  had  shared 
his  brief  prosperity,  and  borne  the  sorrows  of  his 
long  and  toilsome  exile,  was  the  governing  emotion. 
He  loved  her  now  with  a  stronger,  holier  feeling, 
than  he  did,  when,  in  their  youthful  days,  they  stood 
together  before  the  altar. 

"What  is  there  on  earth  that  equals  in  its  pure  in 
tensity  the  emotions  of  long-wedded  love  ? 


The  Author  of  the  "  Velvet  Cushion  "  observes, 
"  that,  to  most  people,  the  progress  of  affection  in 
youth  is  alone  beautiful,  but  that  he  admires  not  only 
how  people  grow  up  together,  but  how  they  wear  out 
together." 

What  more  interesting  contemplation  can  that  be, 
than  to  trace  the  progress  of  true  affection  at  the 
close  of  a  long  and  laborious  life ;  when  youth  and 
beauty,  the  far-famed  incentives  to  love,  have  expired. 

"  Then,  then,  thy  kingdom  comes,  Immortal  Power  1  " 

The  well-tried  affection  of  a  whole  life, ---the 
manners  and  habits,  which,  by  long  use,  have  run 
into  the  same  channel, — the  remembrance  of  an  active 
life  of  usefulness,  —  the  recollection  of  sons  and 
daughters  which  have  stood  "  like  olive  plants  around 
their  table," — all  conspire  to  consecrate  their  affec- 
'tion,  to  purify  it  from  all  dross  of  earth,  and  to  ele 
vate  it  to  heaven. 

To  such,  the  evening  of  life  can  bring  no  discom 
fort,  for  they  look  forward  to  the  bright  morning  of 
eternity,  when,  cleansed  from  every  stain,  and,  leav 
ing  their  frail  and  crumbling  tenements  behind,  they 
shall  be  clothed  in  robes  "  white  and  clean,"  and 
walk  together  down  the  long  reach  of  eternity. 


54        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

Death  to  them  cannot  appear  so  dreadful  as  it 
once  did.  It  cannot  separate  them  long.  When  one 
leans  his  head  on  the  cold  pillow  of  the  grave,  the 
other  will  soon  follow ;  and  the  tree  which  waves  its 
summer  branches  over  the  tomb  of  one,  shall  scatter 
its  autumn  leaves  over  that  of  the  other. 

As  Col.  Dudley  finished  his  prayer  and  rose  from 
his  knees,  he  printed  a  long,  passionate  kiss  on  her 
still  beautiful  lips,  and  gently  said  :  "  Rouse  yourself, 
Anne,  and  prepare  for  rest ;  the  Sabbath  approaches, 
let  us  not  desecrate  it  by  earthly  love." 

"  Surely,  dear  husband,  God  cannot  be  displeased 
with  the  existence  of  those  natural  and  holy  affections 
which  he  has  given  us." 

"  Natural  affections,  my  beloved,  are  given  to  us 
for  our  happiness  below,  but  as  subaltern  and  subor 
dinate  to  those  higher  and  holier  and  purer  affections 
we  give  to  our  Maker  and  Redeemer.  The  former 
become  blamable  when  in  excess,  or  when  they  ob 
scure  the  latter.  The  Sabbath,  God  has  devoted  to 
himself  and  to  heavenly  affections.  The  week  is  for 
the  world, — its  duties,  labors,  trials,  and  blessings ; 
let  us  not  mingle  the  peculiar  province  of  the  two." 

"  May  God  forgive  then,  my  dear  husband,  a 
weak  and  erring  woman,  whose  heart  swells  with 
unutterable  human  affections  !" 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  55 

"  Amen!"  replied  her  husband,  solemnly,  but  af 
fectionately  ;  and,  kissing  her  once  more,  he  passed 
into  the  outer  room  to  attend  to  his  own  nightly  re 
ligious  duties. 

Madam  Dudley,  as  he  left  the  room,  arose  from 
the  bed,  and  commenced  her  arrangements  for  repose. 
She  whispered,  almost  audibly,  "  Oh  husband,  dear 
husband !  I  sometimes  fear  that  you  are,  in  my 
heart,  but  another  name  for  the  Deity,  and  that  my 
love  to  God  is  only  a  reflective  love  of  you  !'K 

As  she  lay  upon  her  couch,  she  could  occasionally 
catch  the  words  of  her  husband's  earnest  prayer  for 
the  colony,  for  her,  for  each  of  their  children,  and, 
finally,  for  himself,  that  early  personal  sins  might  be 
forgiven.  He  appeared  to  wrestle  hard  that  his 
youthful  follies  or  crimes  might  not  be  visited  upon 
his  children. 

It  was  late  before  he  sought  his  pillow  by  the 
side  of  her  who  had  wept  herself  to  sleep. 


56        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  heart !  thy  tumults  cease, 
And  give  this  fluttering  bosom  peace : 
No,  thou  canst  never  be  at  ease, 
Nor  ever  more  beat  soberly 

**  Ah,  my  poor  heart!  what  could'st  thou  da, 
"When,  from  an  eye  of  liquid  blue, 
A  killing  glance,  like  lightning,  flew, 
And  caught  thee,  past  recovery  ?  " 

"Sorrows  of  My  Lord  Plumcake" 

BUT  it  is  now  time  for  us  to  pursue  the  fortunes  of 
Henry  Dudley,  with  whom  we  parted  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Gully  Brook. 

He  had  with  him  only  his  snap-hance,  or  fowling- 
piece,  and  his  hunting-knife,  with  the  usual  charges 
of  powder  and  ball,  without  which  the  colonists  never 
left  the  settlement.  He  crowded  his  way  through 
the  alders  and  briers  that  beset  his  path,  scaring  up 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  57 

many  a  whirring  partridge.  He  appeared  particu 
larly  anxious  to  examine  the  banks  of  the  brook,  to 
detect,  if  possible,  the  trail  of  any  straggler  who 
might  have  passed  before. 

He,  at  length,  reached  a  partially  cleared  spot, 
where  two  large  elms  stood  on  a  little  rising  ground, 
with  no  underbrush  beneath  them.  This  elevation 
gave  a  slight  view  of  the  surrounding  valley,  but 
Henry  could  see  nothing  beyond  the  long  and  tangled 
alder  swamp,  through  which  the  brook  forced  its 
sluggish  way,  and  the  rising  hills  that  shut  him  from 
the  world,  their  slopes  covered  to  the  very  top  with 
the  dense  oak  forest. 

"  Samoset  is  not  here,"  said  the  youth,  as  he 
gazed  around  the  opening.  "  He  promised  to  be 
here  before  the  sun  struck  yon  huge  pine." 

"  Sam'set  be  here,"  said  a  voice  in  broken  Eng 
lish,  so  near  him  that  the  youth  started  as  he  turned  ; 
"Sam'set  no  break  word  with  Young  Eagle." 

"  Well,  it  may  be  so,"  said  Henry,  speaking  in 
the  Indian  tongue,  in  which  language  the  remainder  of 
the  conversation  was  carried  on  ;  "  it  may  be  so,  but 
I  was  impatient." 

"  That  very  impatience  will  be  the  ruin  of  Young 
Eagle  yet :  he  will  fly  where  the  hunter's  shaft  will 

be  sure  to  meet  him." 
3* 


58        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

"  Be  it  so  :  I  had  rather  die  in  the  open  field,  as 
iny  ancestors  did  before  me,  than  meet  my  fate 
among  the  wily  stratagems  of  your  nation,  Samoset. 
I  had  rather  be  the  eagle  scorning  the  sun,  than  the 
fox  stealing  secretly  after  his  prey,  or  the  serpent 
winding  his  slimy  folds  in  the  grass." 

"  I  understand  the  taunt ;  but  when  the  eagle  lies 
fluttering  in  death  agony  on  the  rock,  perhaps,  he 
will  then  envy  the  quieter  and  more  secure  life  of  the 
fox  or  the  snake." 

"  There  may  be  a  kind  of  threat  under  all  these 
figures,  but  you  know  I  care  not  for  threats,  whether 
literal  or  figurative  (this  he  spoke  in  English),  so  let 
us  to  the  object  of  our  meeting.  Will  Jane  grant  me 
the  interview  ?  " 

"  The  Fawn  of  the  Pale  Faces  will  see  you  at  the 
going  down  of  the  sun,  though  she  hesitated  much, 
and  it  was  only  granted  at  my  request." 

"  Your  request !"  said  Henry,  with  an  unrepressed 
sneer. 

"  Yes :  the  Bright  Eye  remembered  that  the  Rat 
tlesnake  of  the  Tunxis  saved  her  from  the  bear's 
grasp." 

"  How  ?    When  was  that  ?     Tell  it  as  we  go  on." 

."  It  is  useless  to  proceed  until  the  time  she  desig- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  59 

nated.  You  will  only  be  impatient,  expose  your  per 
son,  and  be  seen  by  the  people  of  the  house." 

"  What  if  I  am  ?  » 

"  Only  this,  that  you  will  lose  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  Bright  Eye." 

"  True,  true,  Samoset,  your  coolness  gets  the  bet 
ter  of  my  impatience.  But  why  did  she  place  the 
meeting  so  late  ?  She  must  know  that  I  must  return 
so  as  to  pass  the  sentinel  by  sundown." 

"  Perhaps  the  Rattlesnake  will  bring  you  within 
the  town  without  its  being  perceived.  But  have  you 
brought  the  powder  and  shot  as  my  promised  reward  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  are  cunning,  Samoset,  or  Rattle 
snake,  or  by  what  other  name  you  may  choose  to  be 
called,"  said  Henry,  speaking  in  English  ;  "  but  I 
have  trusted  to  you,  perhaps  rashly,  though  I  never 
should  have  so  done,  had  I  not  seen  how  much  influ 
ence  you  possessed  over  one  dearer  than  life  to  me. 
But  as  for  the  powder  and  shot,  you  don't  have  them 
until  I  have  seen  the  Bright  Eye,  as  you  call  her ; 
you  may  look  as  grim  as  you  please,  I  shall  not  break 
the  strict  law  of  the  colony,  unless  I  have  had  my 
advantage  of  the  bargain  first.  So  drop  that  subject, 
and  go  on  with  your  tale." 

"  It  is  short,"  said  Samoset,  speaking  evidently 
with  some  irritation  at  the  haughty  tone  of  the  youth. 


60        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

"  The  young  maidens  of  the  English  were  washing 
their  household  garments  on  the  banks  of  the  brook, 
during  last  summer's  drought.  The  Bright  Eye  had 
wandered  from  them,  and  was  busy  in  collecting  the 
flowers  that  spotted  the  brook.  As  she  looked  up, 
she  saw  a  huge  bear  but  a  little  distance  from  her, 
hastening  towards  her.  In  her  eagerness  to  escape, 
she  stumbled  and  fell.  The  enraged  animal  had 
nearly  reached  her,  when  an  arrow  from  my  bow  was 
buried  deep  in  his  eye,  and,  in  an  instant,  my  knife 
across  his  throat.  Ever  since  then, '  the  old  Indian,' " 
he  added,  speaking  in  English,  "  has  always  been 
welcome  at  her  uncle's  fireside,  and  the  fire-water  and 
the  apple-water  given  me  when  I  asked  it.  When  I 
took  your  message  to  her,  she  at  first  refused.  But  I 
told  her  that  I  desired  it,  and  spoke  of  the  bear. 
She  then  said,  '  Bid  him  come  to  the  old  oak  in  the 
rear  of  the  garden,  at  sunset ;  I  will  see  him,  but  it 
must  be  for  the  last  time.'" 

Henry  frowned,  and  looked  upon  the  earth  for 
several  minutes.  At  last,  he  said,  "  Samoset,  let  us 
go  on,  I  will  not  stay  here  in  suspense  any  longer. 
Lead  the  way." 

Silently  and  slowly,  the  Indian  crept  through  the 
bushes,  and,  followed  by  Henry,  took  the  direction  of 
Capt.  Seymour's  dwelling,  who  lived  considerably 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  61 

beyond  the  other  settlements,  having  chosen  the 
place,  as  more  consonant  with  his  solitary  and  uncom 
promising  disposition. 

Several  times,  Samoset  checked  Henry  for  his  im 
petuosity,  in  not  following  directly  in  his  rear,  and 
for  making  the  trail  so  broad  ;  and  as  often  did  Henry 
reply  with  an  expression  of  contempt  for  his  Indian 
customs  ;  and,  purposely,  it  appeared,  as  a  matter  of 
contradiction,  would  he  break  out  'and  leave  broad 
marks  of  their  progress.  The  Indian  bore  this  petu 
lance  with  apparent  equanimity,  but  only  proceeded 
the  more  cautiously  himself. 

At  length,  they  approached  the  borders  of  a  clear 
ing.  The  blackened  stumps  took  the  place  of  the 
oaks,  while,  in  some  places,  the  newly-felled  trees 
covered  the  ground.  In  the  centre  of  the  clearing, 
appeared  the  house  of  which  they  were  in  search — 
small,  in  comparison  with  modern  tenements,  but  large 
for  the  time  and  place. 

Around  the  house,  a  few  apple  trees  were  growing, 
and  three  large  oaks  and  one  pine  had  been  left  foi 
shade  or  ornament.  It  was  a  quiet  spot.  The  ani 
mals  employed  for  labor,  the  cows,  and  the  sheep  were 
all  collected  in  a  strongly  palisaded  inclosure.  Tho 
framework  of  a  new  barn  arose  near  it.  South 
of  the  house  stretched  a  long  garden,  filled  with  ne- 


62        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

cessary  vegetables,  and  considerable  Indian  corn. 
Beyond  its  extremity,  separated  from  it  by  a  worm 
fence,  there  was  a  cluster  of  oaks  and  pines  over 
hanging  a  small,  round,  stagnant  pond,  common  in 
those  parts.  A  huge  grape  vine  had  twined  itself  so 
round  the  lower  limbs  of  the  trees,  as  to  create  a  nat 
ural  arbor,  under  which  a  rude  seat  had  been  con 
structed,  where  Jane  Seymour  often  sat  on  a  warm 
summer's  day.  The  whole  furnished  a  very  romantic 
trysting-place  for  lovers. 

To  the  right  and  left  were  the  cleared  fields  be 
longing  to  Capt.  Seymour,  from  which  the  summer 
crops  had  just  been  taken,  but  which  were  still  hold 
ing  their  ripening  burden  of  yellow  corn.  Just  down 
the  hill  from  the  bank  on  which  the  oaks  grew,  rolled 
sluggishly  along  a  branch  of  the  Little  River,  in 
whose  muddy  waters  the  forest  branches  stooped  to 
lave  their  thirsty  leaves. 

As  Henry  crept  cautiously  along  the  valley  be 
tween  him  and  the  oak  opening  on  the  little  hill,  he 
requested  Sanioset  to  await  him  in  the  forest,  as  he 
wished  this  interview  to  pass  without  witnesses.  His 
patience  was  sorely  tried,  and  he  cast  many  a  re 
proachful  giance  upon  the  slow  descending  sun,  before 
the  fair  maiden  of  his  choice  made  her  appearance. 

But  our  heroine  must  not  be  introduced  at  the 
very  close  of  a  chapter. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  63 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  But  it  was  not  that  beauty  had  moulded  her  face, 
Where  the  white  rose  and  red  rose  had  mingled  their  grace ; 
Twas  not  the  soft  glance  of  a  mild  beaming  eye ; 
'Twas  something  more  lovely  than  youth's  roseate  dye. 

"  'Twas  that  virtue  and  feeling,  commingling  with  truth, 
Had  added  new  graces  to  beauty  and  youth ; 
And  show'd  how  the  charms  of  the  person  increase, 
"Where  virtue  and  truth  with  the  heart  are  at  peace." 

Parody  on.  Vale  of  Avooa. 

CAPT.  RICHARD  SEYMOUR  was  an  early  settler  of 
Hartford.  But  few  knew  the  reasons  why  he  migrated 
to  a  Puritan  colony, — perhaps,  none  but  himself  the 
true  reason.  He  was  a  cavalier  of  the  roughest  and 
most  profane  stamp,  and  held  every  thing  connected 
with  Puritan  doctrine  and  discipline  in  the  utmost 
contempt.  He  made  no  secret  of  this  disdain,  but 
manifested  it  on  all  occasions  ;  and  seemed  to  take 
delight  in  thwarting  the  plans  of  the  founders  of  the 


64        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

new  settlement,  in  every  matter  pertaining  to  republi 
canism  and  religion,  though,  never  in  such  an  overt 
manner  as  to  make  himself  amenable  to  their  strict 
laws.  Demagogues  know,  how,  under  the  forms  of 
law,  and  adhering  to  its  strict  letter,  they  are  able  to 
thwart  its  operations,  or  to  ridicule  its  folly. 

Capt.  Seymour  was  particularly  hostile  to  Ool. 
Dudley, — "that  canting,  psalm-singing,  hypocrite  of  a 
Puritan,"  as  he  always  called  him.  It  was  supposed 
by  many  that  some  cause  of  quarrel  had  existed  in 
their  native  country.  At  first,  the  colonel  defied 
him  with  more  than  his  wonted  haughtiness  and 
severity,  and  urged  the  magistrates  to  put  a  law  of 
the  colony,  then  just  formed,  in  force  against  him, — 
that  of  punishment  for  not  attending  meeting  on  the 
Sabbath.  Seymour  paid  his  fine,  and  then  stepped 
up  to  Dudley,  writh  a  countenance  in  which  the  demon 
of  revenge  was  revelling  in  every  line,  and  shaking  his 
fist  in  his  face,  demanded  a  private  interview. 

When  the  magistrates  present,  fearing  a  resort 
to  a  duel,  or  some  personal  rencontre,  forbade  it,  Sey 
mour  replied ;  "  I  shall  not  hurt  the  town's  very  up 
right  darling  !  Let  the  cowardly  Roundhead  just  lean 
his  head  forward,  so  that  I  can  whisper  in  his  ear  what 
will  crush  the  hypocrite,  who  is  a  saint,  forsooth,  on 
the  Connecticut,  but  a  sinner  on  the  Thames." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  65 

"  I  am  ready,"  calmly  replied  Col.  Dudley,  "  to 
hear  what  that  man  has  to  say.  I  fear  him  not. 
Follow  me  into  the  anteroom." 

So  saying,  he  flung  his  sword  upon  the  table  in 
front  of  the  magistrates,  and  walked,  unarmed,  into 
the  designated  apartment.  Capt.  Seymour  followed 
him.  They  remained  absent  some  time,  and  the 
magistrates,  especially  the  Governor,  waved  back  any 
one  who  sought  to  appoach  them. 

When  they  returned,  a  smile  of  the  most  exulting 
revenge  lighted  up  Seymour's  face,  while  Dudley  was 
as  white  as  the  dead.  He  passed  by  the  bench,  and 
said,  in  almost  a  whisper,  "  I  withdraw  the  remaining 
complaints,"  and  left  the  Town  House  immediately. 
From  that  time,  neither  spoke  to  or  of  the  other,  or 
suffered  the  least  greeting  to  take  place  in  public  or 
in  private. 

Capt.  Seymour  brought  no  family  with  him  but 
the  daughter  of  his  brother.  He  was,  as  the  times 
were  then,  a  wealthy  man.  He  had  a  large  household 
of  slaves  and  laborers,  and  managed  the  concerns  of 
the  farm  he  selected,  with  great  ability.  Still  he  was 
not  a  happy  man.  He  knew  the  dislike  of  his  neigh 
bors,  and  his  total  unfitness  for  the  principles  and 
feelings  that  reigned  around  him.  He  was  often  heard 
to  say  ,  "  if  heaven  was  like  Hartford,  he  had  no  wish 


66        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

to  be  in  it."  How  true  it  is,  that  our  own  feelings 
make  the  hell  or  the  heaven  of  the  mind,  whatever 
may  be  the  outward  condition. 

In  the  midst  of  these  deleterious  influences,  with 
out  a  mother  or  any  other  female  friend  to  guide  her, 
with  none  but  domestics  around  her,  had  Jane  Sey 
mour  grown  up.  It  is  no  wonder  that  she  felt  most 
keenly  the  occasional  attentions  which  Madame  Dud 
ley  was  able  to  pay  her,  and  was  a  frequent  visitor  in 
the  family,  during  childhood.  Capt.  Seymour  seem 
ed,  at  first,  to  fancy  this  friendship  for  his  niece,  and 
encouraged  it.  Whatever  might  have  been  his  mo 
tive,  Jane  profited  by  it,  both  in  body  and  in  mind. 

She  thus  became  familiar  with  both  the  young  Dud 
leys,  who  in  childhood,  regarded  her  as  a  sister.  But 
this  affection,  in  the  youngest  brother,  assumed,  very 
early,  the  form  of  the  most  intense  passion,  which, 
from  his  usual  impetuosity  of  character,  had  been  re 
peatedly  urged  upon  her,  and  as  constantly  evaded 
rather  than  rejected,  on  ac'count  of  the  difference  in 
their  ages,  she  being  several  years  his  senior  according 
to  the  statement  of  her  uncle. 

In  society  and  by  strangers,  Jane  Seymour  would 
have  been  called  a  showy  girl.  She  possessed  precise 
ly  that  style  of  beauty  that  strikes  beholders  at  once 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  67 

from  its  gorgeousness.  It  was  like  seeing,  for  the  first 
time,  the  sun  rise  at  sea. 

Her  figure  was  perfection,  in  its  full,  round,  swell 
ing  voluptuousness.  There  was  nothing  of  the  little 
or  the  pretty  about  it.  "  Magnificent,"  would  be  the 
'•first  impulsive  expression  at  its  sight.  Her  very  walk 
had  music  in  it,  it  was  so  measured  and  stately. 
There  never  was  any  hurry  in  her  dignity,  but  a  queen- 
like  simplicity  in  every  motion.  There  was  the  same 
majestic  grace  in  all  her  menial  employments — and, 
in  that  rude  period  of  an  early  colony,  they  were  many 
— she  gave  a  dignity  to  even  common  acts. 

Her  face,  like  her  form,  was  large,  full,  but  fault 
less  in  its  perfect  outline,  and  in  the  relation  which 
every  feature  bore  to  each  other  and  to  the  whole 
frame.  Her  hair  was  of  the  deepest,  richest  black, 
and  was  braided  and  folded  about  her  head,  after  the 
existing  fashion,  without  a  curl,  leaving  her  slightly- 
formed  ears,  and,  what  little  of  her  neck  her  ruff  or 
stomacher  did  not  cover,  without  a  straggling  lock  to 
stray  over  ;their  charms. 

In  accordance  with  the  whole  style  of  her  beauty, 
both  of  person  and  face,  her  lips  were  large,  red,  and 
almost  pouting.  Her  mouth  was  capable  of  assuming 
a  variety  of  appearances,  though  its  ordinary  expres 
sion  was  that  of  quiet  reserve,  almost  severity.  But 


68        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

few  ever  saw  her  smile :  when  she  did,  it  seemed  like 
an  "angel  visit,"  it  was  so  rare  and  so  beautiful.  It 
was  the  sun  breaking  away  the  clouds  of  a  November 
storm.  It  was  the  distant  light-house  to  the  tempest- 
tossed  mariner. 

But  her  eye  was  the  most  striking  feature.  It  is 
too  general  an  expression  to  say  that  it  was  black. 
Besides  several  minor  varieties,  there  are  two  great 
species  of  the  black  eye  in  woman — the  active  and  the 
passive.  The  former  is  intensely  black — keen,  pene 
trating,  sly,  passionate  in  temper  but  not  in  body. 
Byron  well  compares  its  strength  to  "night  and  storm 
and  darkness."  The  latter  is  large,  of  a  brownish 
black  hue,  moist,  contemplative,  mild.  It  indicates 
sensibility,  but  not  irritability,  and  is  usually  associ 
ated  with  an  amiable  disposition.  If  it  fails  in  any 
thing,  it  is  in  the  possession  of  energy  and  the  govern 
ment  of  the  affections.  The  women  of  the  first  kind 
are  better  fitted  for  the  active  duties  of  life ;  the  latter, 
for  the  contemplative.  In  the  domestic  relations,  the 
former  will  govern  their  children  the  best ;  the  lat 
ter,  love  their  husbands  the  warmest.  The  former 
will  express  the  most  love  before  marriage,  but  the 
flame  will  burn  no  brighter  'for  being  relighted  at  the 
altar  of  Hymen.  The  latter  will  show  to  man,  "how 
much  dearer  the  wife  is  than  the  bride."  The  one 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  69 

will  be  attentive  as  a  wife  ;  the  other,  confiding.  The 
one,  if  ambitious,  will  desire  to  govern ;  the  happi 
ness  of  the  other  will  consist  in  submission. 

Of  this  latter  kind  were  our  heroine's  eyes,  and 
carried  all  those  characteristics  with  them.  They 
were  large,  lustrous,  varying  in  their  hue  from  a  light 
brown  almost  to  a  black.  They  never  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  you,  but  simply  opening  themselves  to  be 
looked  into.  They  were  like  two  deep  wells,  down 
whose  darkening  depths  you  gazed  for  truth  at  the  bot 
tom.  Wells  !  yes :  wells  of  pure,  intense  feeling,  from 
which  none  but  one  could  ever  drink,  in  life. 

Does  she  stand  before  you,  reader,  in  the  quiet 
calmness  of  her  trustful  and  truthful  character — a 
treasure  to  be  buried  in  the  heart's  core  ?  Do  you 
see  her,  in  her  distinctness,  born  to  that  highest,  no 
blest,  holiest  destiny  of  woman — to  love  and  be  be 
loved  ? 

But  we  have  kept  poor  Henry  waiting  a  tremen 
dously  long  time  for  the  appearance  of  Jane,  while  we 
have  been  decorating  her  for  the  reader's  admiration, 

Did  he  deserve  her  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 

When  first  I  attempted  your  pity  to  move, 

Ah,  why  was  you  deaf  to  my  prayers  ? 
Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love, 

But— why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs  ? 

Old  Song. 

"  I  PERCEIVE,  by  that  frown  on  your  brow,  that  your 
usual  impatience  has  been  uppermost,  Henry,  but  I 
am  not  a  minute  behind  the  time  I  designated  to  Sa- 
moset.  I  agreed  to  see  you  here,  though,  perhaps,  I 
have  done  wrong  in  so  doing,  in  order,  if  possible, 
that  I  might  disabuse  your  mind  of  the  folly  it  has 
conceived." 

"  Hear  me  swear — " 

"  I  wish  to  hear  no  oaths  nor  protestations,  Henry, 
the  scene  will  be  painful  enough  without  them,  for  I 
must,  at  once  and  for  ever,  put  an  end  to  this  insane 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  71 

love  of  yours  to  one  so  much  your  senior.  I  cannot 
love  you.  Your  character  is  not  in  the  least  assimi 
lated  to  mine.  I  have  endeavored  in  all  sisterly  affec 
tion  to  amend  the  numerous  faults  of  your  character, 
but  I  cannot  go  beyond  that  feeling." 

A  paleness  like  that  of  death  spread  over  the  young 
man's  countenance  at  these  words.  He  fairly  gasped 
for  breath  as  he  uttered, 

"  But  can  you  not  alter  ?  Cannot  a  life-long  devo 
tion  to  you  win  one  emotion  of  favoring  affection  ? 
Cannot  the  whole  devoted  fondness  of  a  heart,  yours 
to  its  very  core,  win  your  love  ?  I  would,"  said  he, 
kneeling,  "  dedicate  life  and  body,  and  spirit  and  soul 
to  your  happiness.  Every  action  of  my  life  should  be 
centred  in  you.  It  has  been  so  for  a  long,  long  time. 
Even  in  my  childish  years,  I  loved  you  with  an  in- 
tenseness  that  led  me  to  hate  any  thing  on  which  your 
regards  or  smiles  were  bestowed.  And  now,  as  a 
youth  of  strong  passions  and  concentrated  purposes, — 
as  one,  nearly  a  man  by  law,  and  fully  a  man  in 
strength  and  stature,  in  vigor  of  body  and  firmness 
of  unbending  resolution, — I  love  you  the  same,  with 
the  whole  powers,  energies,  and  capacities  that  I  pos 
sess." 

The  maiden  leaned  her  head  against  the  tree  near 


72 

the  trunk  of  which  she  sat,  and  the  tears    dropped 
down  on  the  dying  leaves  around  her. 

"  You  weep — you  relent." 

"No:  no:  Henry,  I  do  not  relent.  I  weep  for 
the  pain  I  must  give  you." 

"  Have  you  no  heart  ?  "  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
starting  to  his  feet,  the  red  flush  of  anger  succeeding 
the  pallor  on  his  cheek.  "  Have  you  no  heart,  that 
you  drive  me  thus  to  desperation  ?  Your  tears  fall 
on  that  flinty  rock,  not  more  frigid  nor  harder  than 
your  heart.  You  cannot  love  !" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  What !  Is  it  so  ?  You  love  another  then  ? 
Who  is  it  ?  Tell  me,  for  I  will  know." 
-  It  was  Jane's  turn  to  color  now,  and  she  did,  over 
cheek  and  neck  and  brow.  The  emotion  was  but  mo 
mentary,  however.  The  tears  dried  up  in  their  foun 
tains.  A  calm  dignity  overspread  her  countenance, 
and  she  answered  severely,  though  not  with  irritation 
— for  temperaments  like  hers  feel  indignation,  not 
anger  : 

"  Henry,  you  have  no  right  to  make  the  inquiry ; 
no  right  to  take  even  for  granted  the  feeling  on  which 
you  have  founded  it." 

"  I  know  who  it  is.  It  is  my  brother,  with  his 
smooth-faced  hypocrisy.  Woe  be  to  him  ! " 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  73 

"  Henry,  Henry,  you  do  injustice  to  your  brother 
and  myself.  I  will  not  endure  such  rudeness ;  I 
have  already  staid  too  long." 

She  arose  to  go,  but  ere  she  had  left  her  seat, 
Henry  fell  prostrate  at  her  feet,  levelled  by  a  blow 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  which  stretched  him  sense 
less.  At  the  same  moment,  two  or  three  Indians 
seized  her,  and  threw  a  blanket  over  her  head.  She 
had  only  time  to  give  one  faint  scream,  when  her 
mouth  was  stopped  by  a  belt,  and  she  felt  herself 
dragged  off  to  the  forest  between  two  of  the  assail 
ants,  while  the  remainder  of  the  band,  amounting  to 
some  ten  or  twelve,  seized  the  prostrate  form  of  young 
Dudley,  and  followed  rapidly. 

Jane  fainted  under  the  surprise.  When  she  re 
vived,  it  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  predatory  band 
were  in  the  dense  forest,  wading  in  the  middle  of  the 
brook  to  hide  their  trail.  She  was  lying,  at  length,  in 
a  bark  canoe,  bound  tightly,  with  the  belt  still  passing 
around  her  mouth.  She  could  feel  by  the  motion 
that  she  was  being  carried  along  rapidly  by  the  two 
men  that  bore  her.  Once,  as  she  was  let  down  from 
their  shoulders,  to  enable  them  to  creep  under  the 
projecting  alders  and  grape  vines  that  overhung  the 
brook,  she  saw  the  indistinct  forms  of  several  others 
conveying  Henry  in  the  same  manner. 
4 


74         THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

The  leader  of  the  party  there  stopped,  and  ex 
changed  a  few  words  with  his  followers  in  a  low  tone 
of  voice,  and  they  all  turned  suddenly  off  at  right 
angles  to  the  brook,  ascended  an  eminence,  and  then 
struck  off  into  the  forest  at  a  rapid  pace. 

Their  passage  was  extremely  inconvenient  to  their 
prisoners.  The  limbs  of  the  forest  trees  struck 
across  their  faces,  as  they  were  borne  thus  aloft,  and 
the  cold  vapors  of  the  autumn  evening  were  shaken 
upon  them.  Their  limbs  were  stiffened  by  being 
cramped  into  such  an  uneasy  posture,  and  their  jaws 
ached  with  the  pressure  of  the  belts  drawn  over  their 
mouths. 

They  crossed  many  gentle  hills,  covered  with  the 
primeval  forest,  until,  at  the  foot  of  one,  their  captors 
entered  the  channel  of  another  smaller  brook,  and 
followed  its  tortuous  course  for  a  mile,  when  they 
arrived  at  the  base  of  a  high  rocky  ledge, — a  part  of 
the  present  Talcott  Mountains,  —  from  which  the 
brook  descended  with  velocity.  Its  spring  floods  and 
summer  freshets  had  deposited  a  large  quantity  of 
sand  and  pebbles  near  the  base  of  a  little  cliff,  which 
rose  precipitously  some  fifty  feet. 

In  front  there  lay  some  rugged  fragments  of  the 
rock,  which  had  been  precipitated  from  the  mountain, 
over  which  the  little  brook  dashed  in  a  brawling  cur- 


OR.    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  75 

rent,  amid  the  debris  of  the  hill,  the  stunted  alders,  the 
gnarled  and  twisted  birches,  and  the  prostrate  and  dis 
torted  shrubs  that  grow  in  such  rocky  and  sterile  soils. 

The  brook  itself  furnished  no  path  to  the  seques 
tered  nook,  that  lay  concealed  by  these  rocky  coverts, 
— a  fit  retreat  for  a  Naiad  or  a  Dryad.  The  entrance 
was  through  a  long  and  narrow  fissure  between  two  of 
the  rocks,  only  broad  enough  to  admit  one  person  at 
a  time. 

In  the  inclosure — a  space  of  some  quarter  of  an 
acre — there  were  huddled  together  eight  or  ten  rude 
huts,  constructed  by  leaning  poles  against  the  bare 
rock,  and  covering  them  with  twigs  and  branches, 
with  all  their  leaves.  Jane  had  but  a  few  moments 
to  make  even  these  observations  by  the  obscure  light 
produced  by  a  single  pitch-pine  torch,  projecting  from 
a  cleft  in  one  of  the  rocks,  when  she  was  uncere 
moniously  tumbled  out  of  her  rather  uneasy  cradle 
upon  the  pebbles,  and  the  belt  taken  from  her  mouth. 
As  this  last  act  was  done,  one  of  her  captors  ex 
claimed  in  exceedingly  broken  English,  shaking  his 
tomahawk  over  her  head,  as  he  spoke:  "No  squall, 
white  squaw — you  feel  this." 

She  knew  from  the  distance  they  had  come,  that 
screaming  would  be  of  no  avail,  and  sank  down  on 
the  sand,  being  unable  to  move. 


76 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE    FACES  J 


Henry  was,  likewise,  very  unceremoniously  ejected 
from  the  canoe  in  which  be  had  been  carried,  and  left 
bound  upon  the  sand.  The  blow  he  had  received  had 
been  a  severe  one,  though  not  intended  to  kill, — the 
object,  it  seemed,  being  simply  to  make  prisoners. 
The  motion  of  the  conveyance  had  aroused  him,  but 
he  was  too  tightly  bound  for  resistance,  and,  as  yet, 
too  much  under  the  influence  of  the  stupidity  pro 
duced  by  the  blow  to  reflect  very  correctly  or  very 
accurately  upon  his  condition,  or  to  take  any  note  of 
the  route  which  had  been  taken.  Even  if  he  had 
been  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  capacities,  he  would 
have  been  no  match  to  the  wily  Indian.  He  was  too 
impetuous — too  full  of  the  notions  of  chivalric  honor, 
noble  descent,  and  the  hope  of  yet  accomplishing  in 
life  some  gallant  deeds,  to  pay  the  proper  regard  to 
the  innate  deceitfulness  of  the  Indian  race,  or  be  any 
thing  more  than  a  victim  to  its  duplicity.  He  now 
lay,  however,  too  much  injured  to  take  notice  of  pass 
ing  events,  but  he  was  slowly  recovering,  in  conse 
quence  of  the  cessation  of  the  motion. 

Jane  looked  in  sorrow  at  the  sad  condition  in 
which  her  late  impassioned  lover  lay.  She  felt  that 
it  was,  in  part,  owing  to  herself.  She  had  been  im 
prudent  in  permitting  a  meeting,  though  she  had 
been  anxious  to  place  the  matter  of  his  solicitations 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  77 

at  once  at  rest  between  them.  She  felt,  however, 
that  her  imprudence  lay  in  trusting  Samoset,  and  in 
allowing  him  to  exercise  any  influence  over  her  in  so 
important  a  matter,  even  if  she-  did  feel  the  proper 
gratitude  to  him  for  her  preservation. 

She  strongly  suspected  that  Samoset  had  been 
treacherous.  As  soon  as  she  found  herself  carried 
along  on  the  shoulders  of  the  men,  as  we  have  de 
scribed,  and  knew  that  the  immediate  danger  of  death 
was  over,  the  natural  calmness  and  self-control  of  her 
mind  returned,  and  she  felt  it  necessary  to  be  alive 
to  all  the  circumstances  of  the  singular  and  trying 
situation  in  which  she  was  placed.  Though  her  face 
was  partially  covered,  she  listened  with  all  the  inten 
sity  which,  in  a  dangerous  crisis,  we  can  so  often  give 
to  a  single  sense  when  necessary  to  our  safety.  She 
gathered  little,  however,  except  that  the  language  of 
the  party  was  not  that  of  the  Hartford  or  Tunxis 
Indians.  Several  times  she  thought  she  discovered 
the  voice  of  Samoset,  conversing  in  a  low  tone, 
though  in  the  unknown  dialect  of  the  men  who  car 
ried  her.  But,  in  the  feeble  light  which  the  torches 
spread,  she  could  not  distinguish  him."  Every  time 
that  she  made  the  least  effort  to  stir,  or  arise  to  look 
around,  the  Indian,  who  officiously  watched  her,  bran 
dished  his  tomahawk. 


78        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

She  saw,  as  we  have  said  before,  the  desperate 
condition  of  Henry  Dudley,  and  pitied  him ;  for,  by 
his  passion  for  her,  as  she  well  knew,  he  had  been 
duped  by  the  crafty  Samoset,  and  thus  led  into  the 
extremest  peril.  She  could  have  shed  tears  over  the 
prostrate  form,. which  lay  helpless  and  exposed,  though 
in  its  youthful  beauty,  but  a  short  distance  from  her. 

"  Well :  didn't  she  at  once,  of  course,  love  him  ? 
Pity  is  akin  to  love." 

My  dear  madam,  or  miss,  you  never  was  more 
mistaken  in  your  life, — mistaken,  in  point  both  of 
fact  and  theory.  Pity  is  not  akin  to  love ;  and  he, 
who  attempts  to  win  a  female  heart  by  exciting  pity, 
when  other  means  have  failed,  will  find  himself  worse 
mistaken  than  you  are.  The  moment  there  is  an 
appeal  to  a  woman's  pity,  respect  is  weakened.  A 
true  woman  never  loves,  unless  she  can  look  up  to  the 
object  of  her  attachment.  There  must  be  some  sense 
of  superiority  in  something,  or  there  is  no  love  in  the 
female  mind.  Pity  weakens  or  destroys  this  sense 
of  superiority,  and  leads,  more  frequently,  to  con 
tempt  than  to  love. 

There  may  be  exceptions  to  these  positions,  as 
there  are  exceptions  to  the  true  female  character; 
but  the  true  woman  realizes  the  fragility  of  her 
frame,  the  dependence  of  her  situation,  the  weakness 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  79 

of  her  relative  position,  and  delights  that  it  is  so.  It 
is  the  greatest  source  of  enjoyment  in  her  attach 
ments  to  feel  that  she  has  found  a  firm  and  manly 
breast  on  which  to  lean, — a  strong  and  vigorous  arm 
for  her  defence, — a  concentrated  and  governing  will 
on  which  to  depend.  Submission  to  the  one  she 
loves  is  her  happiness.  To  twine  around  his  man 
hood,  as  the  tendrils  of  the  vine  seek  the  sturdy  oak, 
is  her  delight.  Her  comfort  consists  in  quietly  lying 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  rock  that  shelters  her. 

You  may  depend  upon  it,  madam,  if  you  do  not 
feel  as  I  have  described,  that  you  have  never  truly 
loved,  or  loved  only  in  that  way  in  which  those  coarse 
and  vulgar  sticklers  for  woman's  rights, — the  he- 
women  of  modern  society, — think  they  love. 

No,  no,  my  dear  madam,  you  are  mistaken  in 
your  theory.  Pity  is  not  akin  to  love  ;  it  belittles 
the  beloved  object  too  much.  If  your  theory  is  true 
in  any  sense,  it  only  applies  to  the  possibility  that 
love  may  be  thus  excited  in  man  towards  woman. 
Man  loves  to  compassionate,  for,  by  so  doing,  he  feels 
his  own  superiority. 

Let  the  lover,  then,  be  careful  of  appealing  too 
frequently  to  the  pity  of  his  mistress  ;  by  such  a 
course,  he  ruins  the  feeling  of  superiority  on  which 
alone  he  can  build  success.  If  he  is  constantly  en- 


80 

deavoring  to  make  himself  an  object  of  interest,  by 
exciting  her  sympathy  and  compassion  for  any  mental 
or  bodily  suffering,  he  will  gradually  fret  away  the 
texture  of  her  respect,  and  eventually  lose  her  love. 

But  this  is  a  strange  disquisition,  while  two  per 
sons,  in  whom  we  wish  to  interest  the  reader,  are 
lying  on  the  damp  sand  of  a  ravine,  away  up  in  the 
Talcott  Mountains. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  81 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Men  have  died,  aud  worms  have  eat  them ; 

But  none  of  love." 

Shakspeare. 

WHEN  the  day  dawned  over  the  ravine,  it  presented  a 
rough  picture  to  the  prisoners.  The  place  had  been 
selected,  unquestionably,  for  concealment,  and  the 
rudeness  of  the  encampment  showed  that  it  was 
merely  a  temporary  residence,  and  arranged  in  haste. 
A  predatory  band  of  Mohawks  (as  it  was  after 
wards  ascertained),  with  their  squaws  and  pappooses, 
had  settled  here  for  purposes  of  plunder.  They  had 
crossed  the  Hudson  and  Housatonic  in  their  bark 
canoes,  which  they  had  brought  here  on  their  shoul 
ders,  filled  with  their  young  children  and  their  scanty 
apparatus  for  cooking.  It  was  a  roving  expedition,1' 
conducted  in  a  leisurely  manner.  The  whole  summer 
had  been  spent  in  it,  and  they  now  planned  a  journey 
4* 


82        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

to  the  sea-side  as  the  autumn  advanced,  where  they 
intended  to  winter. 

Nor  were  these  expeditions  uncommon.  Game 
was  plenty,  and  the  roving  disposition  of  the  Indian 
inspired  the  thought ;  while,  by  taking  their  families 
with  them,  they  could  make  longer  stays,  and  in  some 
cases  thus  form  permanent  colonies  in  the  places 
where  they  settled. 

In  the  present  case,  they  had  been  persuaded  by 
Samoset,  who  had  accidentally  come  across  them, 
while  roving  through  the  valley  of  the  Tunxis,  to  un 
dertake  a  foray  against  the  English  at  Hartford. 
The  wily  Samoset  had  two* objects  in  view.  One  was 
to  prevent  their  incursions  from  becoming  trouble 
some  to  his  own  tribe,  and  the  other  was  to  revenge 
himself  upon  the  whites  at  Hartford.  He  expected 
likewise,  in  his  craftiness,  to  be  able  to  keep  his 
agency  concealed,  in  bringing  them  upon  the  colony ; 
and,  if  found  necessary,  to  make  some  profit  by  their 
betrayal. 

The  scene  was  a  wild  one.  The  brook,  in  dashing 
its  impetuous  spring-torrents  down  the  mountain,  had 
worn  a  deep,  narrow  ravine,  expanded  only  in  the 
selected  place.  The  twisted  and  crooked  birches  and 
beeches  of  the  forest  flung  their  limbs  athwart  the 
ravine,  high  in  air,  and  screened  the  huts  by  a  canopy 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  83 

of  leaves,  yellowed  by  the  progress  of  autumn.  The 
brown-leaved  oak  and  the  red-foliaged  maple  stood 
sentinels  at  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  and  shut  up  the 
passage  of  the  brawling  brook  from  view.  It  was  a 
well  selected  spot  in  its  security. 

The  pain  of  his  wound,  and  the  tightness  of  the 
withes  which  bound  him,  had  prevented  young  Dudley 
from  sleep,  and  now  deterred  him  from  taking  the 
beauty,  or  even  the  fitness  of  the  selected  encamp 
ment  into  his  mind's  eye.  He  thought  only — and 
his  thoughts  burnt  his  very  soul  as  they  rose  in  his 
excited  mind — of  the  treachery  of  Samoset,  to  whom 
he,  in  his  suspicions,  ascribed  his  present  situation, 
and  of  the  sad  condition  of  the  one  he  so  madly  loved. 
Of  himself,  he  thought  little — let  us,  at  least,  give 
him  this  credit,  and,  though  he  may  have  faults,  ex 
onerate  him  from  this  selfishness.  He  only  regretted 
his  inability  to  do  battle  for  Jane. 

But,  then,  the  sad  termination  of  all  the  long 
cherished  hopes  of  his  passion  poured  the  bitter  tide 
of  its  memory  upon  his  soul,  and  unnerved  his  cour 
age.  As  it  occurred  to  his  mind,  it  seemed  as  if  a 
hand  of  icy-cold  fingers  were  laid  upon  his  heart  to 
freeze  it  as  it  beat. 

The  destruction  of  hope  always  inflicts  a  keen 
pang  on  the  human  heart,  and  the  more  the  object 


84        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  j 

hoped  for  fills  the  mind,  the  more  acute  and  pungent 
is  the  pain  at  its  destruction.  When  a  passion  for  a 
worthy  object  has  filled  up  the  whole  channel  of  the 
heart's  affections  with  its  swelling  flood,  the  death  of 
the  hope  that  fed  it  casts  a  blight  over  all  creation. 
Sometimes,  in  its  excess,  .it  prompts  to  violent  deeds, 
to  insanity,  and  to  suicide.  Sometimes  it  becomes  a 
deep-rooted  grief, — 

"  A  fatal  remembrance,  a  sorrow,  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  has  no  balm,  and  affliction  no  sting. 

"Oh,  that  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay, 
Like  a  dead,  leafless  branch,  in  the  summer's  bright  ray ; 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain, 
It  may  smile  in  its  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again." 

The  effect,  however,  of  disappointed  love  on  ardent, 
impulsive,  and  impetuous  minds,  is  strongest  at  first. 
It  is  the  first  blow  that  is  the  keenest.  Each  day, 
the  smart  of  the  wound  grows  less,  until,  at  length, 
another  object  usurps  the  place  of  the  last,  and 
hardly  a  scar  on  the  heart  shows  where  the  wound 
had  been.  But  to  the  contemplative  and  reflecting 
mind,  the  memory  of  the  loss  is  lasting  as  time. 
When  such  a  mind  loves,  .it  is  for  ever, — for  the  love 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  85 

begotten  in  such  a  heart  is  basecUon  the  existence  of 
qualities  of  the  intellect  and  the  character,  and  not 
on  the  animal  impulses  of  beauty  and  youth,  which 
are  too  apt  to  exclusively  influence  the  impulsive. 
Love,  based  on  passion,  makes  a  great  crackling,  and 
a  stupendous  blaze  for  a  time,  and  then  expires  in  its 
own  ashes.  Love,  based  on  the  esteem  of  virtues 
and  sensibilities,  is  a  constant  light,  burning  clearly 
and  vividly  through  life,  and  flashing  its  brightness 
even  across  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

Disappointment,  in  the  first,  may  lead  to  rash 
acts  ;  but  if  not,  it  is  soon  rubbed  out  of  the  heart  by 
other  impulses.  Disappointment,  in  the  last,  becomes 
keener,  the  more  it  is  reflected  upon ;  and,  in  many 
cases,  has  led  the  man  who  has  experienced  it  to  a 
life-long  contemplation  over  the  love  entomb'd  in  the 
catacomb  of  his  own  heart.  The  world  knows  it  not. 
Benevolence  is  as  active  as  ever.  Duties  are  per 
formed  with  punctuality,  —  even  with  cheerfulness. 
There  is  no  moroseness  of  manner.  Even  the  smile 
is  on  the  face  as  usual,  but  it  is  a  wintry  smile,  for  an 
eternal  winter  holds  its  icy  reign  over  a  heart  that 
can  never  throb  in  love  again. 

The  peculiar  ^  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
placed  had  kept  Jane  awake.  Her  position  was  an 
uneasy  one,  although  one  of  the  older  chiefs  had  gen- 


86        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

erously  flung  her  a  bear-skin,  and  she  could  partially 
lean  against  the  rock  near  her.  She  felt  uncertain 
of  the  intentions  of  her  captors,  or  of  the  motives  of 
Samoset  in  his  treachery.  She  reflected,  if  scalps 
alone  had  been  wanted,  the  Indians  never  would  have 
brought  her  such  a  distance,  or  taken  such  pains  for 
her  transportation.  She  shuddered,  as  she  contem 
plated  the  possibility  of  another  and  more  fearful 
result  than  death  ;  but  Jane  Seymour  was  not  of  an 
excitable  disposition.  She  had  been  accustomed  to 
view  things  calmly  and  deliberately.  She  never  suf 
fered  her  imagination  to  lead  her  ahead  of  reality, 
even  in  trifles.  Her  faculties  were  now  all  awake, 
and  ready  for  any  emergency. 

The  little  encampment  was  soon  aroused  and  busy 
about  preparations  for  their  morning's  meal.  Scouts 
had  been  early  sent  out  to  obliterate  such  impressions 
of  their  trail  as  they  might  have  left  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night  before,  who  returned  with  a  report  that 
all  was  safe.  As  there  might  be  a  long  day's  journey 
before  them,  with  less  of  leisure,  the  Indians  resolved 
to  make  a  hearty  meal.  Game  was  abundant,  and 
had  been  supplied  by  the  hunters  of  the  day  before, 
and  was  soon  roasted  before  a  fire,  which,  with  ears 
of  roasted  corn,  that  had  been  stripped  from  some 
luckless  farmer's  field,  furnished  the  breakfast. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  87 

The  oldest  chief  offered  some  food  to  Jane,  who 
ate,  though  with  reluctance,  but  from  the  necessity 
of  support  in  a  trying  hour.  None  was  offered  to 
Henry,  whom  the  Indians  seemed  reserving  for  some 
torment,  for  he  asked  in  the  language  of  the  Tunxis 
Indians  for  water, — such  was  the  excess  of  his  thirst, 
brought  on  by  the  fever  of  his  wound  and  the  agony 
of  his  mind ;  but  no  notice  was  taken  of  the  request. 

The  attentions  of  the  old  chief  to  Jane  seemed  to 
excite  the  jealousy  of  an  old  hag  of  the  party,  who, 
stalking  up  to  where  she  was  leaning  against  the  rock, 
addressed  her  in  a  dialect  unknown  to  her,  but  evi 
dently,  from  the  violent  gestures,  and  the  savage  ex 
pression  of  the  blood-shot  eyes,  in  vengeance.  She 
drew  her  knife,  or  dagger,  formed  of  a  deer's-horn, 
sharpened  to  a  keen  point,  and  seemed  threatening 
her  with  its  use.  A  few  words  from  the  old  man 
sent  her  muttering  to  her  hut. 

The  feast  was  a  long  one,  for,  where  leisure  and 
opportunity  occur,  the  Indian  indulges  in  a  gluttony 
as  extraordinary  as  his  capability  of  abstinence.  When 
it  was  finished,  the  males  of  the  party  collected  near 
the  place  where  Jane  was  sitting,  and  then,  for  the 
first  time,  she  had  a  full  view  of  the  wily  Samoset, 
whose  twinkling  eyes  were  placed  upon  her  counte 
nance  with  a  startling,  loathsome  expression.  Jane 


88 

shuddered  as  she  saw  the  glance  dwelling  with  keen 
familiarity  upon  her  beauties,  and  now  felt  she  had 
some  key  to  the  difficulties  of  her  situation. 

A  long  discussion  ensued.  There  appeared  by 
their  gestures  to  be  some  difficulty  in  assenting  to 
some  proposition,  which  Samoset  had  made  them,  in 
the  long  speech  with  which  he  had  opened  the  con 
ference.  The  language  was  not  the  dialect  of  the 
tribes  near  the  Connecticut,  but  occasionally  the 
Tunxis  word  for  liquor — fire-water — would  occur.  It 
appeared  as  if  Samoset  were  describing  its  proper 
ties  and  effects,  and  promising  some  to  the  other  In 
dians  as  a  reward,  or  as  a  bargain  for  Jane.  It 
appeared  at  once  that  young  Dudley  was  to  be  given 
up  to  them.  Some  of  the  middle-aged  of  the  party 
cast  scowling  glances  upon  Jane,  as  they  senten- 
tiously  gave  their  opinion,  as  if  they  doomed  her  at 
once  to  death. 

One  of  the  younger  men,  when  it  was  his  turn  to 
speak,  evidently  made  a  demand  for  himself  that 
irritated  and  alarmed  Samoset,  whose  tones  of  cun 
ning  were  softened  into  expostulation. 

Once  Samoset  turned  to  Jane,  and  said  in  the 
Tunxis  dialect,  "  The  Fawn  of  the  Pale  Faces  must 
be  my  squaw,  and  live  in  my  wigwam  for  ever." 

The  discussion  grew  exciting,  and  the  formality 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  89 

of  a  regular  council  was  soon  destroyed.  Several 
spake  together,  and  some  drew  their  tomahawks, 
and,  leaping  high  in  air,  brandished  them  about  their 

heads  ;  and  were  only  prevented  by  the  elders  from 

» 
hurling   them  at  the  heads  of  the  prisoners.     The 

opponents  of  Samoset  appeared  to  have  been  success 
ful,  and  several  of  the  younger  men  were  hurrying 
towards  Jane,  when  an  event  took  place,  which 
changed  the  whole  circumstances  of  her  situation. 


90        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACZS  J 


CHAPTER  XII. 

" '  Come  back !  come  back ! '  he  cried  in  grief; 

'  Across  this  stormy  water : 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief: 
My  (laughter !  oh,  my  daughter ! ' " 

Campbell, 

As  soon  as  Edward  Dudley  joined  Sergeant  Wads- 
worth,  they  commenced  a  march  through  what  is  now 
called  Mill-street,  by  the  margin  of  the  stream.  Ed 
ward  and  the  Sergeant,  with  whom  Edward  was  a 
particular  favorite,  passed  on  a  little  in  advance  of 
the  party,  when  the  Sergeant  said,  in  a  low  voice,  for 
his  military  discipline  would  not  allow  him  to  speak 
evil  of  his  superiors  before  the  common  train-band : — 
"  I  wish  Captain  Mason  had  given  us  some  more 
definite  orders.  I  have  hardly  any  idea  of  the  object 
of  this  expedition,  but  to  assist  you  in  the  search  for 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  91 

your  brother.  The  Captain  said  that  Governor 
Haynes  spoke  something  of  Indians  being  seen,  but 
gave  no  special  instructions,  except  to  commence  the 
search  for  Henry  Dudley  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gully 
Brook.  Here  is  the  place  to  turn  off  towards  that 
brook." 

"  There  is  some  misconception,  assuredly,"  said 
Edward ;  "  I  parted  with  my  brother,  it  is  true,  by 
the  Gully  Brook,  but  I  have  no  intention  of  seeking 
him  there.  I  believe  that  Captain  Mason  said  that  I, 
as  guide,  would  direct  the  platoon." 

"  True,  true,  and  a  trustier  guide  could  not  be 
found.  When  you  shall  have  once  smelt  gunpowder, 
and  bloodied  your  pike  in  a  real  fight  with  these 
troublesome  Redskins,  you  will  be  as  fine  a  fellow  of 
your  inches  to  follow  as  any  in  the  township.  Lead 
on !  lead  on  !  we  are  ready  to  follow.  But  why  do 
you  not  go  to  the  Gully  Brook  ?  " 

"  Simply,  Mr.  Sergeant,  because  my  brother  went 
up  the  brook  some  five  hours  ago,  and  it  is  too  dark 
to  follow  the  trail  now ;  and  if  we  go  up  the  brook, 
we  shall  only  confuse  the  trail  by  our  steps.  Be 
sides,  I  know  pretty  well  where  I  shall  either  hear 
from  him  or  find  him.  I  do  not  anticipate  trouble 
yet,  though  he  promised  to  be  home  before  the  bell 
rang  for  eight,  and  some  danger  may  have  taken 


92        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

place.  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  strange  Indians  be 
ing  seen  lurking  around.  Let  us  hasten." 

"  You  have  always  a  good  reason  for  every  thing, 
Edward.  But,  pray  tell  me,  was  Samoset  with  him  ? 
You  know  that  they  are  much  too  familiar  of  late." 

"  I  know  it,  and  regret  it.  He  spoke  this  after 
noon  about  anxiously  wishing  to  see  Samoset,  but  he 
was  not  with  him." 

This  was  spoken  so  loudly,  that  one  of  the  party 
stepped  forward,  and  touching  his  hat  to  the  Sergeant, 
said  :  "  May  it  please  you,  Master  Wadsworth,  I  saw 
Samoset  as  I  was  driving  home  my  cows  from  the 
Cow  Pasture,  going  towards  the  west." 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you,  Thomas  Goodwin, 
that  when  we  are  on  parade,  or  on  duty,  you  must 
address  me  as  Sergeant.  But  your  news  comes  in 
good  time,  and  I  fear  much,  my  young  friend,  that 
your  red-skinned  villain  has  something  to  do  with  this 
affair." 

"  I  fear  it,"  was  the  sad  reply,  as  the  proofs  of 
his  brother's  danger  pressed  upon  him.  He  said  no 
more,  but  quickened  his  pace  in  the  direction  that 
led  to  Capt.  Seymour's  house,  on  the  Cow  Pasture 
road. 

On  his  arrival  he  found  the  house  closed,  and 
only  a  few  lights  appearing  in  the  windows,  as  if  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  93 

whole  of  his  many  domestics  were  preparing  for  bed. 
Upon  knocking,  the  Captain  himself  opened  the  door, 
with  a  candle,  and  looked  out  in  the  darkness,  sur 
prised  at  seeing  so  many  armed  men.  ' 

Eecognizing  Edward  in  an  instant,  he  began  : 
"  Thou  spawn  of  the  puritan  and  the  rebel,  what  do 
you  disturb  my  house  for,  so  late  on  the  Saturday 
evening  ?  Do  you  not  know,  according  to  the  sancti 
monious  customs  of  your  accursed  sect,  that  the  sab 
bath  has  begun  ?  What  secular  business,  as  you  so 
piously  term  it,  has  driven  you  here  to  manifest  thus 
openly  your  hypocrisy  by  your  actions  ?  Come,  be 
brief  and  be  rapid  !  I  waste  no  words  on  the  son 
of  your  father." 

"  My  brother  Henry  started  for  your  house  an 
hour  before  sundown,  and  has  not  yet  returned.  "We 
seek  him  here.  We  are  anxious,  for  there  are  strange 
Indians  around." 

"  And  what,  most  worshipful  Edward,  would 
bring  your  dare-devil  of  a  brother  to  my  irreligious 
roof  on  Saturday  night  ?  " 

"  I  fear — I  suppose,"  said  Edward,  hesitating, 
"  that  he  wished  to  see  your  niece." 

"  My  niece  !  "  said  the  old  man  violently,  losing 
his  sarcastic  tone ;  "  if  any  of  your  accursed  race  has 


94        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

any  thing  to  do  with  my  niece,  I'll  disinherit  her— 
I'll  confine  her— I'll  " 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind,"  said  Edward,  calmly, 
"  to  inquire  of  Miss  Seymour  whether  she  has  seen 
my  brother?  " 

"  That  I  will  quickly,  and  find  some  means  of 
punishing  her  if  she  has.  Go,  Hannah,"  to  a  do 
mestic,  who  had  entered  the  room,  "  and  tell  Jane 
to  come  here  instantly.  If  she  is  in  bed,  tell  her  to 
rise.  I  suppose  she  thinks  sleeping  is  the  most 
sanctimonious  mode  of  keeping  Saturday  night.  She 
was  not  at  supper,  and  may  have  been  sleeping  all 
the  afternoon.  Has  any  one  been  here,  Esther," 
speaking  to  another  maid,  "  to  see  Jane  to-day  ?  " 

"  Only  Samoset,  about  an  hour  before  sundown." 

"  I  wish  any  one  else  had  killed  that  bear  besides 
that  sneaking,  two-sided  Indian.  He  will  be  round 
the  house  as  long  as  he  can  get  any  rum  or  cider." 

"  Where's  your  mistress,  Hannah  ? — is  not  she 
coming  ?  What  do  you  look  so  pale  for  ?  Have  you 
seen  a  ghost  ?  " 

"  Miss  Jane  is  not  in  her  bedroom.  Her  bed 
has  not  been  used,  and  her  bonnet  is  not  in  the 
room." 

"  She  has  run  off  with  that  scape-grace  brother 
of  yours.  She  shall  never  darken  my  doors  again. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


95 


I'll  see  if  I  cannot  have  vengeance  out  of  some  of 

you  by .  Hand  me  my  gun,  that  I  may  shoot 

this  brat." 

"  Captain  Seymour,  let  there  be  no  violence,"  in 
terrupted  Sergeant  Wadsworth  in  his  deliberate  style  ; 
"  I  shall  report  you  to  the  magistrates  for  the  utter 
ance  of  a  profane  oath,  and  for  an  attempt  to  break 
the  peace.  But,  Edward  Dudley,  how  pale  you  are  !  " 

"  It  is  nothing — don't  notice  it.  Hannah,  when 
did  you  see  your  mistress  last  ?  " 

"  About  sundown  she  went  through  the  garden 
to  the  Oak  Clump,  near  the  little  pond  ;  and  I  now 
remember  I  have  not  seen  her  since." 

"  Captain  Seymour,  my  brother  is  incapable  of 
doing  so  wicked  an  act  as  eloping  with  your  niece. 
I  fear  much  that  those  strange  Indians  have  seen  her. 
They  were  observed  coming  in  this  direction." 

The  old  man  was  totally  unnerved  at  the  sugges 
tion.  "  Hasten  !  "  cried  he,  "  every  one  of  you  to 
the  trees.  It  is  a  favorite  place  of  Jane's.  Roger, 
call  the  whole  household  !  Hannah,  bring  torches  !  " 

The  Oak  Clump  was  soon  reached  ;  but  as  they 
approached,  Edward  pushed  the  eager  ones  back: 
"  Look,"  said  he,  as  he  held  the  torch  on  the  ground ; 
"  see  the  moccasson  tracks  !  Let  every  one  stand  back 
so  as  not  to  mar  the  foot-prints  I  Here's  Jane's  bon- 


96        THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  j 

net  and  her  pocket-handkerchief  trod  into  the  ground  ! 
Here,  too,  is  Henry's  hat,  with  blood  upon  it !  Tha 
Indians  have  been  here,  and  have  seized  them." 

Capt.  Seymour  was  so  much  affected  by  these 
discoveries,  that  he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  the  pow 
ers  of  his  mind,  and  stared  in  almost  idiocy  at  the 
tracks. 

"  What's  to  be  done — think  for  me,  Sergeant," 
said  Edward  ;  "  I  cannot  plan." 

"  It  will  be  of  no  service  to  attempt  to  pursue  the 
trail  to-night.  We  could  not  see  any  thing  of  it. 
Let  us  go  back,  and  remain  at  the  Town  House,  and 
then,  as  soon  as  light  appears,  return,  and  trace  these 
marauders  to  their  hiding-place.  We  shall  need  pro 
vision,  more  ammunition,  and  perhaps  directions  from 
Captain  Mason." 

"  You  are  right,  Sergeant ;  there  is  no  other  way. 
No  one  could  trace  these  cunning  Indians  in  the 
darkness  of  this  night.  Roger,  see  that  your  master 
has  the  necessary  attendance,  and  that  a  watch  is 
kept  around  your  premises ;  and  be  ready  to  report 
any  remarkable  appearance  to  us  to-morrow.  Han 
nah,  your  mistress  will  have  a  sad  night  of  it.  Ser 
geant,  let  us  to  the  Town  House." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO. 


97 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  It  seems  to  ine,  neighbor  Sirnpkins,  that,  in  your  village,  you  dove 
tail  religion  and  war  most  singularly  together.  There  was  a  regiment  of 
laughing  red-coats  in  one  gallery,  and  a  bevy  of  praying  damsels  in  the 
other  ;  while  the  people  below  were  so  distracted  between  curiosity  and 
worship,  that  they  did  not  do  but  half  of  each.  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Simpkins.—"-  It's  a  way  we  have." 

Old  Play. 

GOVERNOR  HAYNES  was  stirring  early  that  Sabbath 
morning.  He  gave  Capt.  Mason  permission  to  detach 
a  party  to  follow  the  trail  of  the  Indians,  who,  after  a 
prayer  by  Rev.  Mr.  Hooker,  started  upon  the  expedi 
tion  at  the  first  dawn,  with  Edward  to  act  as  scout. 
They  were  all  well  armed  and  prepared  with  such 
articles  as  were  necessary  for  a  day's  sojourn  in  the 
woods.  They  were  directed  by  Mr.  Hooker  not  to 
converse  on  any  secular  or  trifling  topics,  it  being  the 
Holy  Sabbath.  The  necessity  of  the  duty  on  which 


98  THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE   FAU;S  j 

they  were  engaged  was  their  excuse,  he  said,  for  not 
attending  divine  worship  ;  but  stillness  and  quietness 
would  consecrate  the  LorcT.s  day  even  in  the  wilder 
ness.  He  exhorted  them,  when  they  did  converse, 
to  do  so  only  on  the  soul's  concerns,  and  to  refresh 
each  other's  spirits  by  holy  consolations. 

This  done,  he  obeyed  the  summons  of  the  Gover 
nor  to  make  a  prayer  at  a  special  council  of  the 
Magistrates,  to  be  held  at  the  Meeting-House,  before 
the  hour  of  breakfast.  The  peculiar  contingencies 
of  the  case  were  a  sufficient  warrant  for  the  meeting, 
and  the  early  hour  would  prevent  its  interference 
with  the  ordinary  Sabbath  worship. 

Governor  Haynes  was  a  prompt  man,  and  he 
knew,  from  the  report  he  had  received  from  Edward 
Dudley  and  Sergeant  Wadsworth,  the  night  before, 
that  immediate  measures  were  to  be  taken  for  the 
recovery  of  the  lost,  besides  dispatching  the  band 
under  Wadsworth's  command. 

"  Colonel  Dudley,  you  are  welcome  to  the  coun 
cil,"  said  the  Governor,  after  Mr.  Hooker's  prayer 
was  over.  "  Under  your  peculiarly  distressing  cir 
cumstances,  I  hardly  expected  to  see  you  in  your 
usual  seat  among  the  Magistracy.  You  have  heard 
the  particulars  from  your  eldest  son,  I  presume." 

"  My  son  has  had  other  duties  to  perform  than 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  99 

even  to  visit  his  parents.  Duty,  with  him  and  me,  is 
paramount  to  affection  or  grief.  But,  nevertheless, 
I  heard  from  private  Thomas  Goodwin,  whom  Ser 
geant  Webster  sent  to  my  house,  early  this  morning, 
the  details  of  my  son's  probable  capture.  I  am  here, 
Governor  Haynes,  agreeably  to  your  summons,  to 
consult  for  the  public  good." 

"  How  is  your  most  excellent  lady  ?  How  does 
she  bear  herself  under  these  afflictions  ?  " 

"  She  has  the  support  of  the  Most  High,  who  has 
placed  the  arms  of  divine  love  beneath  her,  and  is 
able  to  say,  '  the  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken 
away,  and  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.'  But 
these  are  private  griefs  :  let  us  to  the  business  that 
has  called  us  together  on  God's  holy  day." 

Governor  Haynes  then  concisely  detailed  the  cir 
cumstances  already  known,  and  the  steps  he  had 
taken  for  the  rescue  of  the  captives.  He  also  advised 
the  immediate  doubling  of  the  sentinels,  and  that 
mounted  men  be  sent  to  patrol  the  few  roads  that 
were  then  cut  through  the  forest.  All  this  was  ap 
proved  of  by  the  council ;  and  orders  were  issued 
that  every  one  should  attend  divine  service  armed, 
and  that  the  cattle  should  not  be  driven  to  the  two 
pastures,  but  guarded  and  fed  at  home." 

"  All  these  things  are  necessary  to  be  done,"  said 


100       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES 


Governor  Haynes,  "  and  will  furnish  a  sufficient  reason 
for  any  breach  of  holy  time." 

"  As  your  spiritual  pastor,"  said  Mr.  Hooker,  "I 
express  my  approval  of  these  measures." 

"  As  the  chief  civil  Magistrate,"  said  Governor 
Haynes,  turning  round  calmly  but  firmly  to  the  min 
ister,  "  I  do  not  require  the  approbation  of  church 
authority  for  what  I  do — my  office  is  paramount  to 
the  power,  which  the  duties  of  a  pastor  gives  you, 
Brother  Hooker." 

Mr.  Hooker  shook  his  head,  and  slightly  smiled, 
as  if  the  remark  reminded  him  of  some  old  unfinished 
controversy. 

"  As  the  business — may  it  please  your  Excellency 
— is  finished,  which  called  us  together,"  said  Deacon 
Nichols,  "  allow  me  to  say,  publicly,  that  the  private 
admonition  we  were  under  the  necessity  of  giving 
Brother  Dudley,  last  night,  for  the  neglect  of  his  son 
in  not  returning  at  the  appointed  hour  on  the  Satur 
day  evening,  is  now  excused  by  the  exigency  of  the 
case,  and  to  move  that  the  censure  be  rescinded." 

"  The  motion  is  a  proper  one,"  said  Governor 
Haynes,  "  and,  if  there  are  no  objections,  will  be 
considered  passed."  Col.  Dudley  bowed. 

"  Methinks,"  said  Mr.  Hooker,  rising,  "  that  a 
church  censure  should  be  released  bv  church  author- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  101 

ity  only.  Brother  Dudley  was  visited  as  a  church 
member  only."  i  ;  >v'  >  '',o>  ,  .,•  ! 

"  The  law  made; the  rule,"  •relied i  thti  &'lvernor, 
"  and  the  law  only  can  give  'the  censure. '* 

"  But  it  is  a  church  ordinance,  likewise." 

"  We,  as  the  constituted  authorities  of  this  new 
colony,  settled  in  the  wilderness,  are  the  church ; 
you  are  "but  the  selected  pastor  to  guide  our  devotions, 
and  instruct  our  minds  in  matters  purely  religious, — 
and,  even  then,  we  feel  called  upon,  as  part  of  the 
body  of  Christ,  to  exercise  an  entire  control  over 
your  teachings,  your  doctrines,  and  your  discipline. 
As  a  freeman,  Brother  Hooker,"  continued  the  Gov 
ernor,  "  you  must  feel  the  principle,  that  you  are  but 
as  a  man  among  free  men." 

"  Were  it  not,"  said  Colonel  Dudley,  rather  hasti 
ly — «  Were  it  not  for  the  extreme  respect  and  affec 
tion  which  I  entertain  towards  our  beloved  pastor  un 
der  God,  I  would  inquire  of  him,  by  what  right,  or, 
under  what  authority,  he  speaks  at  all  in  this  board 
of  Magistrates.  The  people,  who  elected  us,  have 
given  him  no  such  power.  If  he  claim  it  as  the  pas 
tor  of  our  assembly,  I  would  say  to  him,"  and  the 
martial  eye  of  the  old  Colonel  kindled  as  he  spoke — 
"  I  would  say  to  him  that  we  have  opposed  even  unto 
blood  the  encroachments  of  the  ecclesiastical  over  the 


.02  THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE   FACES  J 

civil  power  and  the  rights  of  the  people,  in  our  mother 
country.  i.  W«e  certainty  oLird  not  seek  this  howling  wil 
derness  f  to  Sqbini'b'to  [the  same  tyranny  here.  We 
are  independent  men— freemen— equally  opposed  to 
oppression  in  church  as  in  state.  We  allow  no  spir 
itual  authority  to  rule  us.  Our  minister  is  no  priest. 
He  is,  as  his  name  denotes,  the  servant  of  God  only. 
That  he  should  be  set  apart  from  common  and  secular 
employments,  to  be  able  to  attend,  the  more  closely, 
to  his  peculiar  duties,  is  best ;  because,  the  relation 
which  the  church  bears  to  the  world  requires  men  to 
defend  religion  by  learning  and  argument  and  study, 
as  well  as  by  piety.  But  as  to  the  internal  relation 
of  the  pastor  to  the  church,  there  is  no  peculiar  sa- 
credness,  no  necessity  of  consecration.  He  is  but  a 
man  among  sinful  men,  to  set  before  the  flock  he  feeds 
the  example  of  humility,  holiness,  and  a  heaven 
directed  soul.  But  in  this  relation,  he  is  not  required 
to  be  any  more  humble,  holy,  devout,  devoted  to  God, 
than  every  member  of  his  community.  As  an  inde 
pendent  collection  of  the  saints  of  God,  organized  and 
associated  for  mutual  edification,  we  fully  believe  that 
it  is  competent,  proper,  and  Scriptural  for  any  mem 
ber  of  that  association  to  break  the  bread  of  life  to 
the  rest,  if  God  so  call  him.  Such  is  the  custom  of 
the  faithful  in  England.  Such  is  our  right  here. 


103 

But  the  dictates  of  expediency,  the  love  of  order,  and 
the  necessity  of  learning  for  the  edification  of  those 
without,  have  led  us  here  in  Connecticut  to  select  our 
stated  and  ordained  pastors.  But  to  no  usurpation 
of  their  power  will  I  submit,  while  a  drop  of  blood 
flows  from  my  heart.  To  no  spiritual  tyranny  will  I 
ever  succumb,  so  long  as  I  have  a  weapon  to  wield,  or 
a  hand  to  guide  it." 

So  saying,  he  brought  down  his  match-lock  in  pro 
digious  emphasis  on  the  oak  floor,  till  the  very  sleep 
ers  trembled. 

"  Excuse  me,  brethren,  if  I  feel  this  subject 
strongly  and  express  it  warmly.  But  it  is  the  very 
principle  that  governed  our  exile,  and  led  us  to  the 
creation,  in  these  desolate  wilds,  of  a  republic  based 
on  religion." 

"  No  apology  is  needed,"  said  Governor  Haynes. 
"  You  but  express  the  feelings  and  views  of  every 
one,  and,  I  presume,  of  Brother  Hooker  himself, 
when  he  reasons  as  a  republican.  We  are  all  desirous 
that  the  church  should  lend  her  influence  to  the  sup 
port  of  the  state,  but  the  latter  must  be  paramount, 
or  we  once  more  sink  under  the  hierarchy  from  which 
we  have  escaped." 

"  Will  not  that  desire  lead,"  said  Mr.  Hooker, 
"  at  some  future  time,  to  the  casting  off  of  all  connec- 


104       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

tion  between  church  and  state  ?  The  period  may 
arrive  when  a  majority  of  men  in  the  state  may  not 
be  governed  by  Gospel  principles.  If  the  state,  then, 
is  paramount,  and  cuts  herself  adrift  from  the  church, 
will  not  the  latter  suffer,  and  religion  be  a  loser  ?  " 

"  The  great  difficulty,"  said  Mr.  Culick,  rising  and 
speaking  in  his  calm  and  lawyer-like  manner — "  the 
great  difficulty  with  the  reverend  gentleman  is,  that 
he  reasons  and  feels  as  if  the  church  were  a  reality — 
a  separate,  tangible  existence — whereas,  it  is  a  mere 
abstraction.  Neither  the  church  nor  the  government 
have  a  real  existence.  Nothing  exists  and  acts  but 
individuals.  It  is  idle  to  speak  of  the  prosperity  or 
declension  of  a  church,  as  separated  from  its  individ 
ual  members.  We  are  a  collection  of  independent 
individuals,  associated  for  mutual  benefit  in  religious 
things,  and  name  our  association,  a  church.  Under 
this  mere  name  of  organization  we  do  not  lose  our  in 
dividual  rights,  or  separate  independence.  "We  have, 
as  individuals,  our  right  to  put  what  construction  we 
please  on  the  declarations  of  Scripture,  if  we  adhere 
to  truth.  We  retain  all  the  powers  of  private  judg 
ment,  to  be  guided  into  right  by  the  arguments  of  the 
pastor,  not  to  be  forced  into  his  conclusions  by  his 
spiritual  authority.  All  such  tyranny  we  opposed  in 
England,  and  will  oppose  it  here. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


105 


"  As  individuals,  desiring  peace,  security,  justice 
and  good  order,  we  have  voluntarily  selected  a  govern 
ment.  This  government  is  no  abstraction,  like  that 
which  is  called  of  divine  origin  in  Europe.  It  is  the 
collected  rights  of  individuals  surrendered  to  the  men 
of  our  choice  for  our  own  benefit.  Our  rulers  are 
individuals  selected  from  among  ourselves.  "We  be 
lieve  in  the  divine  right  of  government — not  in  the 
divine  right  of  the  governors. 

"  The  same  individuals  who  form  our  church  like 
wise  form  our  government,  but,  by  our  own  individual 
authority,  we  make  the  latter  paramount.  We  do 
not  demand  the  church  to  submit  to  the  government, 
for  the  church  has  no  separate  reality.  We  demand 
every  individual  member  of  the  one  association,  to 
submit  himself  to  those  rules  which,  as  an  individual 
member  of  the  other,  he  has  assisted  in  framing." 

"But,"  interrupted  Mr.  Hooker,  "suppose  the 
decisions  of  the  church  and  the  government  clash, 
which  shall  be  obeyed  ?  " 

"  You  are  still  reasoning,  Brother  Hooker,  upon 
your  abstraction.  Is  it  not  absurd  to  say  that  when 
the  same  individuals  constitute  both  the  church  and 
the  government,  that,  under  one  relation,  they  will 
make  one  decision,  and,  under  the  other,  a  totally 
opposite  one  ?  If  you  consider  the  church  as  having 
5* 


106       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES 


no  real,  separate,  tangible  existence,  but  as  composed 
of  individuals  merely,  and  the  same  individuals  who 
compose  the  government,  you  will  avoid  such  an  ab 
surdity." 

"  Brethren."  said  Governor  Haynes,  "  though 
this  discussion  is  useful,  the  time  will  not  admit  its 
being  pursued  further.  We  each  have  our  families 
to  instruct  before  the  hour  of  public  worship  arrives. 
I  therefore  adjourn  this  meeting  of  the  Magistracy, 
after  a  prayer  by  Brother  Hooker." 

Mr.  Hooker,  though  a  warm  controversialist,  was 
a  good  man,  and  a  Christian  man.  He  commenced 
his  prayer  in  that  low,  solemn  tone,  which,  when  not 
a  matter  of  affectation,  comes  from  the  heart,  and 
speaks  to  the  heart.  He  was  no  spiritual  dictator 
now,  but  the  organ  of  depraved  and  sinful  men  to 
carry  their  desires  and  aspirations  to  the  throne  of 
eternal  purity.  The  humble  confession  of  sin  —  the 
deep,  deep  sense  of  abiding  depravity  —  the  awful  dis 
tance  of  the  Deity  from  such  worms  —  the  justice  of 
punishment  —  were  all  dwelt  upon  until  every  heart 
forgot  its  late  risings  of  pride  and  independence,  and 
was  abased  before  God.  He  then  opened  the  gates 
of  mercy  and  of  Heaven,  and  let  the  light  of  salva 
tion  through  the  Mediator  pour  upon  the  sin-crushed 
soul.  He  painted  the  character  of  that  Mediator, 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  107 

until  every  heart  was  softened — bathed  in  the  dew  of 
penitence,  and  swelling  with  unutterable  love.  He 
alluded  then  to  the  cause  that  had  collected  them, 
and  prayed  for  the  erring  and  suffering  son,  and  the 
distressed  parents,  in  an  affectionate  eloquence  that 
vibrated  on  every  chord  of  Col.  Dudley's  hidden  affec 
tions.  Not  one  of  that  body  but  went  to  their 
homes  that  morning  with  softened  and  subdued  spir 
its,  with  bosoms  swelling  with  the  kindliest  emotions 
of  benevolence,  prepared  the  better  to  perform  the 
sacred  duties  of  the  Sabbath  morning's  instructions. 
A  calm,  holy  confidence  in  Jehovah  throbbed  in  every 
breast,  prepared  to  submit  to  all  that  his  providence 
required  of  them  to  do  or  suffer. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  meeting  house,  Capt. 
Seymour,  under  the  most  powerful  excitement,  rushed 
through  the  council  until  he  reached  Col.  Dudley, 
and  accosted  him  rudely  and  violently  :  "  Give  me 
back  my  niece,  which  your  scoundrel  of  a  son  has 
carried  off !  Where  have  they  gone  ?  Where  have 
you  concealed  them  from  me,  that  you  may  marry 
them  by  force,  and  thus  demand  the  old  man's  pro 
perty  ?  Where  are  they?  Give  me  back  my  niece, 
you  bloody,  deceitful  Roundhead  !  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  your  niece,  rude  man.  I  may 
have  the  same  reason  to  suspect  that  you  have  spirited 


108       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  FALE  FACES; 

away  my  son.  But  pursuit  has  been  ordered,  and 
will,  we  trust,  be  effectual.  I  have  no  more  desire 
that  my  son  should  marry  your  niece  than  you  have. 
You  can  spare  those  taunts." 

"  Captain  Seymour,"  said  Governor  Haynes, 
"  every  measure  that  prudence  and  wisdom  have  sug 
gested,  has  been  taken  for  the  pursuit  and  rescue  of 
the  captives.  This  violence,  and  rude,  loud,  boister 
ous  speech  is  unbecoming  both  the  day  and  the  occa 
sion.  But  we  can  excuse  much  to  the  irritation  of 
your  feelings.  Brethren,  let  us  to  our  family  duties." 

"  What  is  all  this  I  hear,  neighbor  Bull,"  said 
George  Steele  to  his  near  neighbor,  when  going  home 
from  meeting  on  the  noon  of  this  same  day,  after  they 
had  left  their  brethren,  who  resided  nearer  than  they 
did,  and  were  climbing  the  hill  that  now  leads  to  the 
College.  "  I  did  not  understand  all  Parson  Hooker's 
prayer,  about  the  dangerous  errand  of  some  of  the 
brethren.  What  has  happened?  You  can  speak 
low,  and  Deacon  Nichols  yonder  won't  hear  what  we 
are  talking  about." 

"  Why,  you  see,  neighbor  Steele,"  said  the  Corpo 
ral,  "  Ned  and  Hal  Dudley  went  out  a  hunting  yes 
terday,  and  Ned  came  back  all  alone.  I  was  on 
guard,  and,  according  to  Gov.  Hayncs's  instructions  to 


OR,    TWO    CENTUR-IfiS    AGO.  109 

record  all  the  goings  out  and  the  comings  in, — so  my 
instructions  read, — I  had  to  report  to  his  Excellency 
that  Hal  Dudley  was  out  of  the  settlement  on  Satur 
day  evening.  Well :  I  went  home,  but  late  in  the 
evening  my  wife  went  down  to  Deacon  Nichols,  to  get 
some  herbs,  for  Asa  was  sick,  and  she  said,  when  she 
got  back,  that  the  Deacon  had  heard  that  the  Indians 
had  killed  and  scalped  Hal,  and  carried  off  Captain 
Seymour's  Jane,  and  that  Sergeant  Wadsworth  and 
his  platoon,  with  that  nice  lad,  Eddy,  were  going 
after  them  in  the  night." 

"  Why  wasn't  you  sent  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  wanted  too  much  in  the  street  to  keep 
guard." 

"  More  likely,"  whispered  Steele's  wife  to  her 
daughter,  who  were  walking  a  little  in  the  rear,  "  they 
feared  that  you  would  talk  too  much  for  an  Indian 
hunt." 

"  But  did  they  find  Hal  Dudley's  body  ? " 

"  They  found  something,  for  I  overheard  Jim 
Cook,  who  works  up  to  Seymour's,  say  that  they 
found  something,  but  whether  it  was  his  body,  or  his 
hat,  I  did  not  hear." 

"  Who's  gone  ?"  said  Steele. 

"  Well :  I  rather  think  that  Wadsworth  took  the 
guard  for  to-day.  lie  certainly  did  take  Corporal  Web- 


110 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE    FACES' 


ster,  who  is  the  most  expert  woodsman  we  have,  and 
William  Sheldon,  who  is  next  to  him.  Tom  Goodwin 
wa'n't  to  meeting,  nor  Hutchins,  nor  Smith,  nor  Pond, 
and  I  suspect  they  are  all  gone." 

"Hush,  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Steele,  "Deacon 
Nichols  is  looking  round,  and  he  will  think  we  are 
engaged  in  some  idle  talk  on  the  Sabbath." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  Ill 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

—  "  this  Elm — that  o'er  iny  head 
Its  aged  boughs  in  shade  has  spread — 
How  many  years  have  glided  by 
Since,  first,  it  stretch'd  its  limbs  on  high. 
A  thousand  suns  have  o'er  it  stream'd ; 
A  thousand  frosts  in  morn  have  gleam'd. 
"When  first  a  tender  twig  it  stood, 
There  wav'd  around  a  verdant  wood ; 
The  river  roll'd  beneath  its  streams, 
A  mightier  wave  than  now  it  seems : 
No  human  foot  had  trod  the  scene ; 
The  laurels  flung  a  tangled  screen, 
And  scarce  the  deer  could  stoop  to  drink, 
So  close  the  shrubbery  twin'd  the  brink." 

Old  Times :  a  Poem. 

As  soon  as  there  was  light  sufficient  to  discern  any 
thing,  Sergeant  Wadsworth,  with  his  party,  were  on 
their  way  to  Capt.  Seymour's,  and  soon  reached  the 
foot  of  his  garden. 


112 

"Stop,  men!"  said  the  Sergeant;  "let  Edward 
Dudley  go  alone,  and  examine  with  care  the  place  of 
the  encounter,  and  the  trail  leading  from  it.  He  is 
one  of  the  best  scouts  in  the  colony,  and  has  a  quick 
eye.  and  keen  judgment  in  all  such  things.  We  shall 
only  confuse  the  tracks  It  is  important  to  know  the 
exact  path  they  have  taken." 

While  Edward  went  upon  this  errand,  with  every 
sense  and  faculty  in  acute  exercise,  the  Sergeant  col 
lected  his  party  for  a  short  breakfast.  The  men  un 
strapped  their  knapsacks,  and  taking  out  their  corn 
bread  and  pieces  of  cold  salt  meat,  and  each  his  little 
flask  of  spirits,  sat  down  to  eat,  but  not  until  the 
Sergeant  had  reverently  asked  a  blessing  upon  the 
food,  which  some  of  the  men  thought  rather  long,  as 
they  stood  uncovered  in  a  frosty  morning." 

"  There  is  a  large  band  of  them,"  said  Edward, 
as  he  joined  the  breakfast ;  "I  could  plainly  discover 
that  fact  around  the  place  where  the  hat  and  other 
articles  were  picked  up,  last  night.  But  our  steps 
there  had  so  confused  the  other  tracks  that  I  could 
learn  little  from  them.  Following  them  down  by  the 
margin  of  the  pond  to  the  brook  beyond,  I  then  ex 
amined  them  with  more  caution.  There  must  have 
been  some  ten  or  twelve,  as  I  saw  nearly  as  many 
very  distinct  foot-prints.  They  were  Indians,  and  not 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  113 

Dutch,  as  I  knew  by  their  moccasons.  They  belong 
to  none  of  our  tribes  here.  The  mode  of  the  cutting 
out  of  the  moccason  is  more  like  the  French  fashion. 
Two  marks  I  could  not  account  for.  These  were 
long  hollows  in  the  mud,  pressed  down  as  if  with  con 
siderable  weight ;  they  looked  as  if  made  by  a  very 
long  sap-trough,  with  a  smooth  bottom.  From  these 
holes,  the  regular  march  seems  to  have  been  taken 
up.  There  was  but  a  single  track,  or  foot-mark,  as 
if  each  one  had  been  careful  to  step  in  the  tracks  of 
the  other.  Indeed,  such  must  have  been  the  case,  for 
the  foot-print  sank  deeper  into  the  mud  than  if  one 
man  had  made  it  alone.  Near  these  two  round,  regu 
lar  holes  in  the  mud,  were  fragments  of  that  little 
shrub  which  the  Indians  employ  for  making  ropes 
and  withes.  The  captives,  I  presume,  were  tied  with 
them.  I  should  have  said  that,  among  the  foot 
prints,  was  that  of  a  moccason  of  the  fashion  our  In 
dians,  near  the  colony,  wear." 

"  That's  Samoset's,  I'll  bet,"  said  Isaiah  Pond, 
one  of  the  privates. 

"  Private  Isaiah  Pond,"  said  Sergeant  Wads- 
worth,  "  how  often  must  you  be  checked  for  that  pro 
fane  and  godless  habit  of  offering  to  bet ;  and  think, 
Isaiah,  it  is  the  Sabbath-day,  too,  when  such  worldly 
vanities  ought  not  to  pass  through  your  mind.  Your 


114       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

conjecture,  however,  is  probably  accurate.  But  go 
on,  Edward." 

"  I  saw  not  much  more  ;  after  some  rods,  the  trail 
led  into  the  brook,  which  was  probably  followed  to 
some  distance,  as  I  could  see  scratched  and  broken 
twigs  hanging  down  in  front  of  me." 

"Let  us  depart  at  once,"  said  Sergeant  Wads- 
worth.  "  Corporal  Webster,  take  half  the  men,  and 
proceed  on  the  right  bank  of  the  stream  in  single  file, 
and  keep  a  good  look  out.  I  will  tal^e  the  left  bank 
with  the  remainder  of  the  men,  in  the  same  order. 
Edward  Dudley,  do  you  proceed  slightly  ahead  of 
both  parties  for  observation.  Remember,  Corporal 
Webster,  the  object  is  to  note  the  indications  that 
the  Redskins  have  kept  in  the  brook,  and  especially 
to  observe  when  they  left  it,  and  in  what  direction. 
Let  not  a  word  be  spoken,  and  keep  your  matches 
lighted  in  readiness.  You  need  not  be  cautious  about 
your  trail,  for  we  are  not  the  pursued." 

The  men  were  supplied  with  matchlocks.  Each 
had  a  short,  stout  cutlass  at  his  side,  and  a  pair  of 
pistols  and  a  large  knife  in  his  girdle.  They  were 
clad  in  quilted  coats,  which  were  thick  enough  to  pre 
vent  an  Indian  arrow  from  penetrating.  They  were 
all  thus  heavily  armed,  and  sank,  every  step,  deep 
into  the  mud.  But  the  loose  tops  of  their  boots  were 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  115 

not  rolled  down,  as  in  days  of  peace,  but  were 
brought  up  over  the  knee,  and  tied  around  the  thigh, 
for  the  protection  of  the  limb.  They  were,  however, 
stout,  hardy  men,  patient  of  fatigue,  and  accustomed 
to  a  rough  life;  and  plodded  steadily  along,  with 
their  guns  at  a  trail,  and  their  eyes  searching  around 
at  every  appearance  of  the  bushes  overhanging  the 
brook. 

They  had  not  proceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when 
young  Dudley  stopped  and  made  a  gesture  for  a  halt. 
"  What  is  it,  Edward  ?  "  said  the  Sergeant. 

"  Look  there,"  said  the  youth. 

It  was  a  place  where  the  alders  had  swung  down 
almost  into  the  stream,  so  that  whoever  waded  the 
stream  must  have  done  it  almost  on  the  hands  and  knees. 
In  the  middle  of  the  brook,  there  was  a  low,  mud- 
covered  rock,  over  which  some  smooth,  heavy  object 
had  been  dragged,  and  on  which  it  had  been  suffered 
to  rest  for  a  moment,  while  the  branches  above  were 
ragged  and  much  torn.  The  men  all  gathered  round. 

"  That  is  something  in  which  they  are  carrying 
their  prisoners,"  said  Edward. 

"  It  is  a  birch  bark  canoe,"  said  Corporal  Web 
ster,  who  was  an  old  man,  and  experienced  in  Indian 
skirmishes  ;  "  I  see  the  grain  of  the  bark  printed  in 
the  mud." 


.  16  THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE   FACES  ; 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  Sergeant ;  "  and  there  are 
two  of  them." 

They  pursued  their  way  for  several  miles  by  the 
side  of  the  brook,  breaking  their  way  through  the 
cold,  dank  alders. 

It  was  a  beautiful  autumn  morning.  The  sun 
soon  came  out  bright  and  clear,  and  drove  off  the  un 
healthy  and  unwelcome  fogs ;  and  drank  up  the  thin 
coating  of  slight,  white  frost,  that  covered  the  leaves. 
The  delicate  tread  of  the  timid  squirrel  could  be  heard 
far  off  in  the  still  forest ;  the  partridge  rose  whirring  at 
their  approach,  and  sailed  off  through  the  red  and 
seared  wood;  the  rabbit  glanced  at  them  from  his 
thicket,  and  hid  himself  in  his  hole. 

There  were  evident  signs  that  they  were  on  the 
right  trail.  The  night  march  of  the  Indians  had  not 
been  so  carefully  conducted  as  to  leave  no  trace. 
The  breaking  of  the  limbs  of  the  alders, — the  mocca- 
son  print  on  some  little  sand-bar, — the  occasional 
dragging  of  the  canoes  under  the  overhanging  bushes, 
— were  all  indications  of  their  passage. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO  '  17 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  At  length  the  bank  where  now  he,  sleeping,  lay 
The  huge  o'erhanging  oaks,  in  all  their  pride ; 
The  dashing  stream,  seen  through  the  alder  boughs ; 
The  hazel  branches,  bending  o'er  his  face, 
Were  seen.    He  dreamt,  that,  motionless,  he  lay, 
And  powerless :  around  his  arms,  there  wound, 
In  multitudinous  folds,  a  serpent  huge. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  shake  the  monster  off; 
Still  it  wound  round ;  tighter  it  drew  its  folds, 
When,  with  a  start,  he  woke,  and  found  not  all 
A  dream." 

Altawmah;   Canto  II. 

THEY  had  proceeded  thus  for  some  time,  when  Ed 
ward  again  called  out  for  a  halt. 

"  They  have  turned  off  here,  and  gone  due  west." 
Corporal  Webster  was  called  from  his  side  of  the 
stream,  and  coincided  in  the  opinion.  The  trail  was 


118       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

now  plainer,  as  if  less  caution  was  thought  to  bo 
needed.  This  new  track  was  followed  along  the  top 
of  several  eminences,  on  one  of  which  the  Indians 
appeared  to  have  rested  and  renewed  their  torches, 
which  the  first  and  last  of  the  files  carried.  The 
print,  where  the  canoe  rested,  might  be  seen  on  the 
wet  leaves  and  crushed  ferns  of  the  damp  forest 
ground. 

Several  branches  of  the  West  Hartford  River, 
which  of  itself  is  a  branch  of  the  Little  River,  were 
crossed  by  accessible  fords ;  and  the  trail  thus  con 
tinued  in  a  westwardly  direction,  until  another  small 
stream  was  reached,  when  it  again  terminated. 

"They  have  taken  the  brook  again,"  said  Cor-- 
poral  Webster  to  Edward   and   the    Sergeant,  who 
were  in  the  van  ;  "  search  carefully  for  their  steps  on 
the  rotting  moss." 

But,  notwithstanding  their  severe  scrutiny,  no 
traces  of  the  progress  of  the  Indians  could  be  de 
tected.  After  a  walk  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  over 
ragged  stones  and  tangled  shrubs,  making  no  discov 
ery,  Sergeant  Wadsworth  called  a  halt,  and  advised 
to  return  and  examine  the  trail,  as  it  seemed  to  enter 
the  brook,  in  order  to  ascertain  if  the  pursuers  had  not 
left  it ;  for  the  stream  deviated  considerably  from 
the  former  straight  western  line. 


OR,    TWO    CENTUPdES    AGO.  1  19 

"  No,  no,"  said  Corporal  Webster,  "  the  cunning 
dogs  took  the  brook,  and  we  are  either  nearing  their 
hiding-place,  or  else  their  passage  across  the  moun 
tain.  We  must  search  the  more  carefully." 

"  The  bushes  are  so  thick,"  said  Edward,  "  that 
we  cannot  accurately  examine  the  brook.  I  must  do 
as  they  did,  and  follow  up  in  the  brook  itself." 

"  A  good  idea,"  said  Webster  ;  "and  I  will  go 
on  the  side  as  near  to  you  as  I  can,  and  assist  you. 
Sergeant,  do  you  and  the  party  drop  a  little  into  the 
rear ;  but  watch  the  banks  closely  lest  they  should 
have  suddenly  left  the  stream." 

They  had  not  proceeded  far,  when  Edward  pointed 
to  Webster  where  some  more  careless  foot  had  slipped 
off  a  rock,  and,  in  falling,  had  caught  hold  of  a  bush, 
which  was  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  the  elbow  of 
the  man  sunk  into  the  deep  soil  of  the  bank. 

Soon  the  passage  of  the  party  in  that  course  was 
abundantly  exhibited  by  their  approach  to  a  little 
fall  in  the  stream,  where  their  efforts  to  pass  on 
without  leaving  the  brook  were  very  evident. 

When  on  the  eminence  over  which  the  rivulet 
fell,  Sergeant  Wadsworth  again  halted  his  party,  and 
sent  Edward  to  the  top  of  the  highest  tree  to  recon 
noitre. 

"  Follow  with  your  eye,"  said  Corporal   Webster, 


120       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

"  the  course  of  the  brook ;  you  can  easily  tell  it  by 
the  greener  appearance  of  the  leaves  of  the  bushes." 

Upon  his  descent,  Edward  reported  that  the 
stream  made  a  sudden  turn  to  the  west,  and  that  he 
could  trace  it  up  to  the  very  foot  of  the  mountain, 
— perhaps  a  mile  off.  "  Just  where  it  leaves  the 
mountain,  there  is  a  pile  of  rocks,  and  I  thought  I 
could  trace  the  faint  outline  of  a  thin  wreath  of 
smoke,  ascending  the  lull  from,  that  spot." 

"  We  have  them,"  said  the  Corporal,  "  if  we  work 
warily.  The  rascals  are  now  preparing  their  break 
fast  in  one  of  the  ravines,  previous  to  a  long  march. 
They  will  gorge  themselves  for  a  fast  of  several 
days.  We  are  sure  of  them,  if  we  approach  quietly, 
and  can  reach  them  before  they'  commence  their 
march." 

"  Onward,  then,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "  and  pro 
ceed."  A  long  distance  was  passed  in  an  exceed 
ingly  cautious  passage  through  the  low  bushes  by  the 
now  small  brook,  when  they  came  to  a  narrow  ravine 
worn  by  the  stream  through  a  rocky  hill,  and,  as 
they  could  see  through  the  trees,  the  mountains  rising 
very  near  them.  The  Sergeant  halted  and  assembled 
the  men  in  the  mouth  of  the  small  gorge,  and  rested 
there  for  a  few  minutes.  A  small  portion  of  spirits 
was  dealt  out  to  each,  which  they  drank  diluted  in 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  121 

the  cold  water  of  the  stream.  Their  arms  were  all 
examined,  their  matches  lighted,  and  every  thing  in 
readiness  for  a  contest. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  heart  of  Ed 
ward  Dudley  fluttered  a  little  in  his  bosom  as  he 
watched  these  precautions,  and  knew  the  high  reputa 
tion  of  both  Wadsworth  and  Webster  in  Indian  war 
fare,  warranted  their  use  now. 

"  Corporal  Webster,"  said  the  Sergeant,  in  a 
whisper,  which  every  man  imitated  when  he  spoke, 
"  was  you  ever  here  before  ?" 

"  I  remember  the  place  well,  now.  A  deer  once 
took  me  up  this  ravine.  At  its  top,  the  brook  issues 
from  the  mountain,  by  forcing  its  way  over  some 
scattered  fragments  of  rocks.  Just  beyond  that 
mouth,  there  is  a  little  recess  between  the  rocks,  of 
hard  sand,  made  by  the  freshets  of  the  brook.  It  can 
hardly  be  called  a  cave.  They  are  no  doubt  there, 
and  I  suspect,  shrewdly,  that  Samoset  led  them  there, 
for  there  were  indications  when  I  saw  it,  last  year, 
that  Indians  had  been  in  it." 

"  Corporal,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "  do  you  and  Ed 
ward  go  forward  and  reconnoitre.  He'll  make  a  good 
soldier  as  soon  as  he  has  had  experience.  Take  the 
hill,  and  proceed  as  you  think  best.  Private  Shel- 


6 


122       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

don,  follow  up  the  brook  stealthily  ;  be  ready  to  sup 
port  them  if  attacked,  or  to  observe  what  you  can. 
Let  the  sharp  whistle  of  the  killdeer  be  the  signal  for 
our  onset." 

The  men  departed ;  Webster  and  Edward,  climb 
ing  up  the  hill  and  going  round  the  gorge,  reached 
its  termination  before  Sheldon.  As  they  advanced, 
Edward's  quick  eye  saw  the  head  of  a  young  Indian 
appear  for  an  instant  above  the  rocky  barrier,  over 
which  the  brook  fell,  but  looking  in  the  direction  of 
the  ravine,  as  if  some  noise  had  produced  suspicion. 
Concealed  behind  some  fallen  logs,  they  looked 
through  the  interstices  of  the  limbs  of  a  thick  cedar 
at  the  same  spot,  when  the  same  eager  face  was  appa 
rent  again  still  gazing  down  the  gorge.  "  Sheldon 
has  betrayed  himself  by  his  noise,"  whispered  Web 
ster  ;  "  let  us  crawl  nearer,  while  that  Redskin  is 
watching  him." 

As  it  chanced,  just  at  the  moment,  a  large  rabbit 
sprang  across  the  gorge,  and  stood  on  the  farther 
eminence,  amusing  himself  by  his  gambols.  This 
seemed  to  have  satisfied  the  young  Indian,  and  to 
have  allayed  his  suspicions  ;  and,  as  he  watched  the 
movements  of  the  animal,  he  exposed  his  whole  side 
and  back  to  the  skulkers. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  123 

As  they  crawled  nearer,  says  the  corporal,  a  I 
could  fetch  him  now,  but  the  report  of  the  gun  would 
alarm  the  whole  body  behind  these  rocks.  Stay  here, 
Edward,  and  keep  my  gun  and  ammunition.  I  must 
try  skulking.  Don't  rise  or  fire,  unless  he  makes  a 
noise,  and  then  the  quicker  you  act  the  better,  both 
in  helping  me  and  in  making  the  signal." 

In  saying  this  he  left  the  logs,  where  they  were 
lying,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Edward  could 
occasionally  see  him,  as  he  crawled  from  one  rocky 
dell  to  another,  until  he  was  in  the  rear  of  the  savage 
sentinel,  and  among  the  rocks  that  concealed  him. 
The  young  Indian  appeared  taken  up  with  the  gam 
bols  of  the  rabbit,  but  still,  at  intervals,  looked  cau 
tiously  down  the  gorge.  He  fitted  his  arrow  to-  the 
string,  as  the  rabbit  for  a  moment  stood  still ;  as  if 
he  wished  to  add  his  flesh  to  the  meal  he  still  hoped 
to  eat  before  the  march  commenced.  He  hesitated 
several  times,  as  the  animal  changed  his  position, 
little  knowing  how  two  experienced  woodsmen  were 
closely  watching  every  movement.  Just  as  he  let 
the  arrow  fly  from  the  bow,  the  powerful  arms  of 
Webster  were  around  him,  and  his  own  blanket  thrown 
over  his  head. 

At  the  same  instant,  Edward  and  Sheldon  sprang 
forward, — the  one  from  the  gorge  and  the  other  from 


124       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

the  cedar-bush,  and  assisted  in  gagging  and  shackling 
him ;  while,  in  a  moment  more,  the  hoot  of  the  kill- 
deer  sounded  through  the  clear  atmosphere,  and  the 
whole  party  noiselessly  approached.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken,  as  they  tied  the  sentinel  to  a  sapling,  and 
silently  crept  over  the  rocks. 

The  first  thing  that  Edward  saw,  as  he  and  Web 
ster  rushed  forward  in  the  van,  was  a  huge  Indian, 
standing  over  Jane  Seymour,  and  brandishing  his 
tomahawk,  while  Samoset  seemed  holding  him  off; 
and  Henry  lay  struggling  on  the  sand  with  another. 
The  shot  from  Edward's  well-aimed  gun  struck  the 
Indian  in  the  head,  who  fell  backward  dead  over  the 
body  of  Samoset,  whom  he  had  prostrated  by  his  fall. 
In  an  instant,  the  whole  English  party  were  in  the 
cave,  in  a  hand-to-hand  conflict  with  the  cutlass. 
The  surprise  was  complete,  and  every  member  of  the 
marauding  band  lay  in  death  immediately.  The 
prisoners  were  released,  the  huts  fired,  and  the  fe 
males  and  children,  brought  with  the  party,  were  left 
to  find  their  way  back  as  well  as  they  could.  Upon 
gathering  the  bodies  of  the  dead  for  some  sort  of  in 
terment,  Samoset  was  found  unhurt,  lying  beneath 
the  body  of  the  dead  chief.  He  was  bound  in  readi 
ness  to  be  carried  to  Hartford,  there  to  be  judged,  as 
he  was  considered,  in  some  sort,  a  subject  of  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  125 

colony.  The  young  sentinel  was  conducted  as  a 
prisoner  in  the  same  manner  ;  and  Sheldon  took  care 
to  'place  the  rabbit,  with  the  arrow  through  his  body, 
in  his  knapsack,  for  his  night's  supper. 


126       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Oh  Jealousy,  thou  green-eyed  fiend!  what  deeds 
Of  mischief  and  of  wrong  hast  thou  not  wrought ! 
Because  a  piece  of  finely-painted  flesh 
"Will  choose  to  smile  in  preference  on  one, 
The  other  fools  are  paving  mad,  and  long 
To  cut  each  other's  throats,  as  if  there  was 
One  only  black-eyed  being  in  the  world ! 

Out  on  such  folly ! 

Old  Play. 

THE  march  home  was  conducted  in  a  very  different 
manner  from  the  pursuit.  Corporal  Webster  led  the 
band  in  a  direct  line,  by  certain  marks  of  his  own,  to 
the  colony,  and  Wadsworth  brought  up  the  rear. 
The  prisoners  and  the  rescued  were  placed  in  .the 
centre,  and  the  whole  company  marched  with  a  more 
extended  front. 

Edward,  at  first,  busied  himself  in  assisting  Jane 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  127 

over  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  when  Henry  rather 
rudely  interposed,  and  told  him  he  would  take  care 
of  the  lady,  and  begged  him  not  to  interfere  in  his 
affairs.  It  was  uttered  in  so  stern  and  almost  inso 
lent  a  tone,  that  the  soldiers  near  turned  round  to 
see  the  cause. 

Jane,  at  first,  with  a  flushed  cheek,  prepared  to 
reply,  but  Edward  said,  very  calmly,  "  As  you  please, 
brother  Henry,"  and  sought,  at  once,  the  van,  where 
Corporal  Webster,  in  his  blunt,  woodsman  kindness, 
endeavored  to  soothe  him,  supposing  that  it  was 
Jane  that  had  driven  him  away. 

"  See,"  said  the  honest  Corporal,  "  she  is  weep 
ing  already  about  it.  But  don't  mind  her  tears,  Ed 
ward  ;  they  are  the  women's  match-locks,  and  do 
more  mischief  than  shot — a  hunter  never  heeds  them. 
I  always  think  of  the  old  saying,  *  that  there  is  as 
much  consideration  to  be  taken  of  a  woman's  weep 
ing,  as  of  a  goose's  going  barefoot.'  But  she  seems  to 
have  huffed  your  brother,  and  he  is  looking  like  a 
thunder-cloud  about  it.  But  I  see  you  are  troubled, 
Edward,  and  do  not  wish  me  to  talk.  It  is  the  Sab 
bath,  too,  and  we  had  better  march  on,  and  silently 
thank  the  Lord  that  none  of  us  have  been  killed." 

When  Edward  left  Jane,  Henry  endeavored  to 
assist  her  in  passing  through  the  under-brush,  but 


128 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE   PALE   FACES  J 


Jane  resolutely  refused  his  aid,  and  finally  spoke 
rather  indignantly  to  him,  as  pursuing  her  too  perse- 
veringly.  This  did  not  serve  to  diminish  Henry's 
petulance,  but  he  left  her  to  walk  by  herself,  and 
sought  Samoset,  as  if  the  fittest  object  on  which  to 
vent  his  ill-nature. 

"  You  red-skinned  rascal,  it  is  you  that  brought 
me  into  this  trouble,  and  came  near  depriving  me  of 
life.  If  you  was  not  bound,  I  would  stab  you  to  the 
heart,  you  lying  varlet." 

This  was  said  partly  in  Samoset's  own  dialect,  but 
produced  no  other  reply,  beyond  that  of  deepening 
the  light  of  intense  hatred  in  his  swarthy  eye. 

"  Speak,  you  dog :  what  had  I  done  that  your 
spite  should  be  turned  towards  me.  Oh  !  I  remem 
ber  now.  And  so  your  copper-skinned  bosom  had 
been  pierced  by  the  darts  of  love,  had  it  1  And  you 
wanted  the  bright-eyed  Fawn  of  the  Pale  Faces  in 
your  lodge  ?  Out  upon  such  preposterous  desires  !" 

The  sarcasm  ruffled  the  Indian  enough  to  disturb 
his  assumed  equanimity,  and  he  hissed  low  through  his 
teeth,  "  She  would  not  have  you  either.  I  heard  it 
last  night." 

"  Take  that,  you  vile  copper-colored  scoundrel,  for 
your  insolence,"  said  Henry,  striking  him  in  the  face 
with  a  stick  he  carried,  he  having  no  arms. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  129 

"  Master  Henry  Dudley,"  said  private  Sheldon, 
who  guarded  the  pinioned  prisoners,  "  it  is  unmanly 
to  strike  a  man  whose  arms  are  tied." 

"  Keep  your  advice  to  yourself,  Goodman  Shel 
don.  I  will  hear  no  more  impertinence  from  you 
than  from  the  Redskin,  you  plebeian  boor." 

"  "When  this  duty  is  over,  I'll  let  you  know,  young 
malapert,  that  in  these  woods  we  are  all  equal,  and 
that  nobility  of  birth  is  of  little  service  against  a 
good  strong  arm  and  a  hickory  switch.  You  will 
never  be  a  man  like  your  brother.  Every  one  loves 
him." 

Here  Sergeant  Wads  worth  pressed  through  the 
files,  and  cried  out :  "  Stop  this  unnecessary  talking 
in  the  ranks,  in  such  a  loud  voice.  Remember,  it  is 
the  holy  Sabbath  day,  and  must  be  kept  sacred, 
even  in  the  wilderness." 

"  I  shall  not  stop  at  your  bidding,  most  puissant 
Mr.  Sergeant  Wadsworth,"  said  Henry ;  "  I  am  not 
under  your  command,  so  give  me  none  of  your  inso 
lence." 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  Sergeant,  solemnly,  "you 
are  bringing  up  yourself  to  be  a  despiser  of  dignities, 
and  to  a  certain  fall.  I  shall  not  have  my  authority, 
as  commander  of  this  party,  disputed.  I  arrest  you 
in  Governor  Haynes's  name,  for  insubordination,  con- 
6* 


130       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

tempt  of  your  superior  officers,  and  for  a  disregard 
of  the  Sabbath." 

At  the  same  time,  he  held  him  tight  in  his  iron 
grasp,  and  tied  his  hands  behind  him,  despite  his 
frantic  struggles  and  violent  exclamations.  Putting 
him  under  the  care  of  a  private,  he  ordered  the 
inarch  to  recommence  in  silence. 

No  sooner  did  Edward  hear  the  condition  to 
which  his  brother  had  reduced  himself  by  his  petu 
lance,  than  he  turned  back  to  the  centre  of  the  de 
tachment,  and  demanded  firmly,  though  with  perfect 
calmness  and  respect,  for  what  reason  his  brother  was 
thus  treated,  and  by  what  authority.  Sergeant  Wads- 
worth  replied  by  relating  the  circumstances. 

"  But,"  said  Edward,  "  do  you  pinion  him  on 
the  military  or  civil  charge  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  Edward,  you  are  a  good  fellow  and 
a  first-rate  scout  and  soldier,  but  a  little  too  much  of 
a  lawyer  in  your  whys  and  wherefores." 

"  I  am  in  no  mood  for  trifling  now,"  said  Ed 
ward.  "  Why  do  you  pinion  him  ?  " 

"  Lest  he  should  escape,  Master  Questioner." 

"  But,  prythee,  whither  should  he  escape  ?  He 
has  no  place  but  his  father's  house  to  flee  to,  and 
Colonel  Thomas  Dudley  is. the  last  man  to  screen  one 
of  his  sons  from  a  legal  process,  lawfully  served. 


OH,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  131 

Besides,  if  yon  accuse  him  of  a  military  crime,  and 
pinion  him  accordingly,  you  are  transgressing  your 
military  power.  He  is  not  one  of  your  party,  and 
owes  you  no  obedience,  either  by  enlistment,  or  agree 
ment,  or  order  of  the  court.  You  are  therefore  sub 
jecting  yourself  to  an  action  of  false  imprisonment. 
If  you  arrest  and  pinion  him  for  the  civil  crime  of  a 
breach  of  the  Sabbath  laws,  you  are  transcending  your 
authority,  for  you  are  no  constable,  and  act  with  no 
warrant.  Remember,  Sergeant  Wadsworth,  that  we 
came  into  this  wilderness  for  the  enjoyment  of  liberty 
— liberty  from  ecclesiastical,  royal,  or  military  tyran 
ny — but  liberty  under  law.  Law  cannot  be  re 
spected  among  a  people  unless  all  its  forms  are  ob 
served  with  strictness,  and  the  military  power  kept 
in  entire  subordination  to  the  civil  authority.  Let 
me  urge  you,  then,  Sergeant  Wadsworth,  to  take  a 
correct  view  of  your  present  proceedings,  and  let  me 
warn  you  of  their  consequences." 

"  Well,  well,  Edward  Dudley,  I  suppose  you  are 
right;  and  will,  therefore,  release  the  youth  from 
durance.  But,  I  assure  you,  a  report  of  his  conduct 
shall  be  laid  before  the  magistrates." 

"  Edward,"  said  Henry,  "  I  suppose  I  must 
thank  you  for  your  lawyer-like  speech  and  its  effects. 
If  you  had  possessed  the  spirit  of  our  ancestors,  you 


132       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES 


would  have  cleaved  the  low  fellow's  head  to  the  brain 
with  your  cutlass." 

"  Brother,  in  this  our  new  community,  we  must 
lay  the  foundations  of  a  reverence  for  law  deep  in 
the  human  mind,  if  we  wish  to  form,  what  our  leaders 
have  planned,  a  successful  Christian  republic." 

"  Pshaw,  pshaw,  brother  of  mine,  let  us  hear  none 
of  your  low  republican  doctrines ;  give  me  the  chival 
rous  warfare  of  our  knightly  ancestors — the  court — 
the  king—" 

"  Hush,  brother,  you  will  be  overheard,  and  re 
ported  to  those  able  to  punish  you.  Be  more  guarded." 

Henry  was  about  to  reply,  when,  looking  round, 
he  saw  Jane  Seymour's  lustrous  eyes  fixed  in  admira 
tion  on  Edward's  eloquent  face,  and  a  new  train  of 
unpleasant  thoughts  passed  through  his  breast,  and 
his  old  petulance  revived.  He  turned  from  his  bro 
ther,  and  fell  back  to  the  rear,  where  he  sullenly 
marched  for  the  rest  of  the  route. 

As  the  settlement  was  approached,  and  the  last 
ford  of  the  Little  Eiver  crossed,  privates  Steele  and 
Hutchins  were  sent  on  as  an  escort  with  Jane  to  her 
uncle's  house,  which  stood,  as  we  have  observed,  in 
the  direction  of  the  Albany  turnpike.  The  remain 
der  of  the  party  crossed  the  hills  directly  to  the  river 
settlement,  which  they  reached  just  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  afternoon  religious  service. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  133 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

"  Well  did  he  hail  the  prodigal's  return, 
And  kill  for  bis  repast  the  fatted  calf; 
Such  fathers  are  a  wonder  in  the  land." 

The  Good  Father  :  a  Tragedy. 

SERGEANT  WADSWORTH  made  his  military  report  very 
briefly  to  Governor  Haynes  direct,  who  replied,  rather 
coldly,  that  he  would  hear  it  more  in  detail  the  next 
day.  The  Sergeant  had  alluded  to  Henry  Dudley's 
arrest,  which  the  Governor  waived  in  the  same  man 
ner,  saying :  "  Although  it  may  be  proper  on  the 
Sabbath,  when  circumstances  require  it,  to  act,  or  to 
deliberate  how  to  act,  it  is  not  proper  nor  commend 
able,  when  action  is  finished,  to  talk  over  its  results  ; 
the  morrow  will  be  time  enough.  Let  the  two  In 
dians,  that  you  have  brought  as  prisoners,  be  con- 


134       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

ducted  to  the  jail.  Let  the  young  Dudley  be  called 
upon  for  his  answer  to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time, 
Sergeant,  dismiss  your  party,  after  a  thanksgiving 
from  Brother  Hooker  that  you  have  returned  safely, 
which  we  will  tarry  to  hear.  Let  the  rest  of  the 
brethren  retire  to  their  own  residences,  and  reflect 
upon  the  instructions  the  day  has  given  them.  Col. 
Dudley,  we  hold  you  responsible  for  the  attendance 
of  your  son  before  the  magistracy  to-morrow.  Breth 
ren,  depart  in  peace." 

Solemn  was  the  meeting  around  the  family  altar 
that  evening,  in  the  little  dwelling  of  Col.  Dudley. 
There  was  that  expression  of  unchecked  passion  and 
haughty  irritation  in  the  face  of  the  younger  son 
that  excited  the  ire  of  one  parent,  and  alarmed  the 
anxieties  of  the  other ;  while  the  still  and  wordless 
grief  of  the  elder  struck  both  parents  with  solicitude. 

"  The  first  thing  of  which  I  ought  to  inquire, 
Henry,"  said  the  father,  is,  "  why  you  did  not  return 
with  your  brother,  last  evening,  before  the  sun  went 
down  ?  Methinks,  the  command  of  a  parent  and 
the  laws  of  the  colony  require  a  prompt  obedience." 

"  I  had  made  such  arrangements  as  I  supposed 
would  enable  me  to  return  in  season,"  said  Henry, 
sullenly. 

"  Why  then" — and  the  old  man's  face  began  to 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


135 


gather  its  sternness,  and  to  flush  as  he  spoke — "  why 
then  did  you  disobey  my  repeated  commands,  not  to 
have  any  communication  with  Captain  Seymour's 
niece  ? " 

"  Methinks,  father,  a  son  just  saved  from  the' 
cruel  death  which  the  savages  threatened,  might  meet 
with  a  kinder  reception  when  he  first  steps  over  his 
father's  threshold." 

"  Son,  don't  bandy  words  with  me.  The  Bible, 
and  the  laws  of  the  land,  give  me  a  power  that  I 
shall  exercise." 

"  Husband !"  said  a  mild  voice,  while  the  implor 
ing  eye's  of  the  mother  of  his  children,  moistened 
with  tears,  were  fixed  mournfully  upon  his  face.  It 
called  up  the  father  within  ;  and  the  puritan  and  the 
magistrate  were  forgotten. 

"  Anne,  I  will  forbear.  He  is  our  son.  But  let 
rne  tell  you,  Henry,  that  no  excess  of  love  on  your 
part  to  that  girl  will  ever  justify  me  in  giving  consent 
to  your  marriage ;  and,  if  you  persevere  in  your  at 
tachment,  you  are  only  heaping  up  sorrow  on  your 
own  head,  that  will  burn  into  your  very  heart's  core." 

"  And  does  my  mother  join  in  this  hard  decree  ?" 
said  Henry,  taking  her  hand. 

"  Your  mother,  my  dear  boy,  says  the  same  thing. 
You  cannot  marry  Jane  Seymour,  and  any  farther 


136       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

acquaintance  with  her  will  carry  desolation  to  your 
own  heart." 

"  There  will  be  desolation  enough,  if  I  cannot. 
But  I  see  how  it  is — she  is  reserved  for  the  eldest 
foorn.  That  smooth-faced  hypocrite  must  have  her,  I 
suppose." 

"  Henry,  Henry !  you  grieve  me  beyond  account. 
Edward  can  no  more  marry  her  than  you.  God  grant 
that  he  may  never  love  so  hopelessly,  so  madly." 

"  Son  Henry,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  your  conduct 
is  beyond  endurance.  To  your  brother's  prudence, 
zeal,  and  perseverance,  you  owe  your  release  from  the 
torture  of  the  savage,  and  do  you  dare,  in  your  wild, 
insane  passion,  to  taunt  him  thus  ?  But  let  us  hear 
what  is  the  nature  of  the  accusation  that  hangs  over 
you,  to-morrow." 

The  mother  started,  and,  turning  pale,  cast  her 
imploring  eyes  upon  Edward,  who  had  hitherto  sat 
silently  behind  the  group.  He  advanced,  and  re 
peated  the  difficulty  with  Sergeant  Wadswortb,  as 
favorably  to  Henry  as  he  could ;  and  detailed  the 
arguments  he  had  made  use  of. 

"  Son  Edward,  you  reasoned  incorrectly  respect 
ing  the  Sergeant's  military  power.  He  must  have 
authority,  while  engaged  in  an  expedition,  over  all 
concerned  in  it,  or  who  seek  its  protection  as  an 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  137 

escort.  Still,  the  Sergeant  ratlier  transcended  his 
authority  in  pinioning  Henry.  But  we  will  see  to 
that  to-morrow.  The  faults  charged  are  such,  that 
submission  to  the  law  will  be  all  that  will  be  neces 
sary.  And  now,  my  sons,  our  opinions  having  been 
expressed  decidedly  to  both  of  you,  respecting  the  in 
dulgence  of  any  attachment  to  your  old  playmate, 
and  its  utter  impossibility,  let  us  close  the  ordinary 
duties  of  the  day,  arduous  and  exciting  to  you,  by  an 
exposition  of  its  religious  uses  and  improvements." 


138       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  TJntutor'd  Love !    E'en  in  the  wilderness, 
Thou  pour'st  thy  flood  of  passion  o'er  the  heart 
****** 

For  not  alone,  in  the  warm  climes,  beams  warmth 
Of  heart :  thy  power  controls  the  wanderer 
On  Heckla's  side,  until  his  bosom  burns, 
Strong,  as  the  lava  stream,  descending  there. 
On  the  North  Sea,  'mid  everlasting  ice, 
The  Greenland  youth  thy  powerful  influence  feels, 
As  bounds  his  light  skiff  o'er  the  mountain  wave. 
'Tis  false,  that  '  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood.' 
The  heart,  beating  beneath  the  storm-rock'd  pines, 
That  writh'd  their  gloomy  tops  on  Bantum  Lake, 
Glow'd  strong,  as  if  a  Grecian  sky  she  breath 'd, 
Or  tun'd'her  lute  with  Andalusia's  maids." 

Altawmak;   Canto  III. 

LET  us  now  intrude,  dear  reader,  into  a  young  maid 
en's  chamber,  and,  if  possible,  into  a  young  maiden's 
heart. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  139 

There  are  periods  in  one's  lifetime,  when  one 
lives  years  in  a  single  day ;  especially,  when  the  veil 
is  torn  off  from  one's  own  heart,  and  all  its  secret 
hopes  and  fears,  unacknowledged  to  one's  self,  have 
been  laid  naked  and  bare  to  the  conscience  and  the 
understanding. 

Jane  had  retired  early.  The  fatigues  and  the 
dangers  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours  were  a  sufficient 
excuse.  For  though,  like  all  the  women  of  a  young 
colony,  she  labored  hard,  and  could  endure  great 
fatigue,  there  had  been  excitement  and  danger,  and 
mental  pain,  that  had  mingled  with  the  fatigue,  until 
nature  was  nearly  exhausted.  She  read  her  custom 
ary  portion  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  and,  on  her 
knees,  gave  her  Heavenly  Father  thanks  for  the  pre 
servations  of  the  day  ;  and  commended  herself  to  his 
protecting  care  for  the  night.  She  divested  herself 
of  the  torn  and  soiled  clothing  which  she  had  worn  in% 
her  forced  expedition  ;  and,  having  arranged  her  gar 
ments  for  the  next  day,  she  extinguished  her  light, 
and  for  a  moment  before  she  sought  her  couch,  looked 
out  on  the  dark  night. 

The  evening  fogs  were  already  rising  and  curling 
over  the  spot  where  she  had  rejected  the  advances  of 
her  impetuous  lover.  The  tall  pine-tree,  against 
which  she  had  then  leaned,  was  almost  shrouded  by 


140       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

the  damps  that  were  fast  forming  from  the  neighbor 
ing  marshes.  She  sighed  as  she  thought  how  the 
mists  of  sorrow  had  arisen  and  shrouded,  in  the  same- 
manner,  the  heart  of  the  young  man  who  so  ardently 
loved  her. 

She  sought  her  pillow,  but  not  to  rest.  There 
were  too  many  objects  of  thought  crowding  on  her 
mind  to  allow  her  to  sleep.  Indeed,  the  very  fatigue 
itself  had  produced  a  preternatural  state  of  excited 
nerves  that  effectually  banished  sleep.  She  must 
think ;  and  strong  and  vivid  as  the  lightning's  glare 
were  the  flashes  of  intense  thought  that  rushed  over 
her  heart. 

She  thought  of  Henry, — of  her  final  and  forcible 
rejection  of  his  love, — and  of  the  evil  traits  that  he 
had  manifested  that  day.  She  still  felt  inclined  to 
palliate  them  in  her  ingenuous  heart,  and  ascribe 
them  to  the  blow  his  affections  had  received.  She 
endeavored  to  think  of  his  good  qualities,  and  to  re 
capitulate  them,  as  a  kind  of  offset  to  the  growing 
disapprobation  of  her  opinions. 

It  has  often  been  a  matter  of  philosophical  in 
quiry  how  a  woman  feels  towards  a  man  she  has 
rejected.  He  has  paid  her  the  highest  compliment 
that  man  can  pay  a  woman,  and  yet,  in  too  many 
cases,  that  compliment  has  been  the  means  of  produc- 


'OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  141 

ing  contempt  and  hatred.  Women  differ  in  this  re 
spect  ;  and  the  goodness  of  their  dispositions,  and 
the  correctness  of  their  amiability,  may  "be  estimated 
by  their  conduct  under  such  circumstances.  Some 
girls  will  ever  afterwards  favorably  remember  the 
excellent  qualities  of  the  rejected  suitor, — follow  his 
path  in  life  with  anxious  thoughts, — feel  humbled  if 
he  degrades  himself, — feel  an  additional  self-respect 
if  he  becomes  distinguished. 

How  much  of  regret  mingles  in  this  self-respect, 
the  world  never  knows.  They  never  acknowledge  it 
even  to  themselves,  unless  caprice  had,  in  part,  im 
pelled  the  rejection. 

Others,  again,  magnify  the  faults  of  the  late  lover, 
as  a  kind  of  excuse  to  themselves  ;  and  are  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  at  his  departure  from  the  path 
of  duty,  as  if  justifying  them  in  that  rejection. 

Such  was  not  Jane  Seymour.  She  was  pained  at 
the  necessity  of  the  course  she  had  long  resolved  to 
take,  but  she  had  not  repented  nor  regretted  it  yet. 
She  was  grieved  at  the  painful  exhibitions  of  ill  tem 
per  and  of  petulance  which  the  day's  adventures  had 
drawn  out ;  but  she  never,  one  moment,  thought  of 
recalling  her  decision.  Girls  have  done  it.  Com 
passion  for  the  pain  they  have  produced  has  led  them 
to  encourage  addresses,  when  their  heart  was  not 


142       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES: 


much  interested ;  and  they  have  lived  and  died  as 
wives,  without  that  absorbing  passion  which  idolizes 
its  object. 

Jane  was  compassionate.  Every  corner  of  her 
soul  was  full  of  woman's  tenderness.  It  breathed  in 
every  breath  she  uttered, — beat  in  every  pulsation  of 
her  blood. — and  filled  up  and  pervaded  every  affec 
tion  of  her  heart.  She  felt  severely  and  keenly  for 
Henry,  but  another  and  subtler  flame  was  creeping 
over  her  soul,  consuming,  as  it  glided  on,  every  spare 
sympathy,  every  new-born  offspring  of  compassion. 
She  thought  less  of  Henry  than  of  herself  and  her 
own  danger. 

Henry's  question  of  the  night  before  had  let  the 
first  light  into  her  wilfully  dark  mind ;  and  the  blush, 
that  unbidden  then  rushed  to  her  face,  was  the  first 
acknowledgment  to  herself  of  the  truth.  She  now 
thought  over  the  whole  day.  Edward's  conduct  had 
been  kind  to  her,  but  nothing  more.  He,  evidently, 
had  yielded  her  in  his  own  mind  to  his  brother  ;  and 
even,  she  said  to  herself,  should  his  brother  inform 
him  of  the  result  of  our  conference,  he  will  not  inter 
fere  with  his  brother's  pursuit. 

She  started  as  she  caught  herself  thinking  of  the 
possible  love  of  one  who  never  had  given  her  the 
least  encouragement  that  he  thought  of  her  otherwise 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  143 

than  as  his  brother's  love.  She  felt  even  then,  alone 
as  she  was,  and  dark  as  the  night  was,  the  blush  of 
shame  mantling  her  cheek  at  the  idea  that  she  loved 
one  who  had  never  sought  her  affections.  She  felt 
as  if  even  the  purity  and  modesty  of  her  own  heart 
were  compromised  by  thus  loving  unsought. 

"  Thank  God,"  she  exclaimed,  "  he  never  knew 
it,  or  suspected  it.  He  never  shall.  He  cannot  look 
down  into  the  depths  of  my  soul,  and  see  his  image 
hidden  there.  But  there  is  not  much  danger  of  ever 
meeting  him  again.  The  last  thing  my  uncle  said  to 
night  was,  that  Colonel  Dudley  was  his  enemy,  and 
that  no  son  of  his  should  ever  marry  his  niece.  He 
knew  how  to  prevent  it,  and  would  do  it.  What  did 
he  mean  ?" 

Alas !  poor  Jane,  the  course  of  true  love  will  not 
run  very  smoothly  with  you.  You  go  to  sleep  with 
the  resolution  formed  to  think  no  more  of  Edward 
Dudley,  but  the  effort  will  be  in  vain.  On  a  heart  like 
yours,  the  impression  once  made  is  made  for  ever.  A 
new  impulse  has  been  given  to  every  thought,  feeling, 
and  action  of  your  existence,  that  will  never  leave 
you  amid  the  toils  and  trials  of  time,  or  the  joys  and 
fruitions  of  eternity.  To  a  soul,  such  as  beats  ir» 
your  bosom,  to  love  once  is  to  love  for  ever.  Hence 
forward,  there  is  no  more  the  calm  and  quiet  happi 


144 

ness  of  a  free  and  light-hearted  life.  One  passion 
has  entered  your  soul,  that  will  color  every  thought 
and  mingle  in  every  feeling.  You  will  strive  against 
it  in  vain.  Every  struggle  but  winds  its  coils  the 
more  closely  around  your  heart.  The  rose  may  leave 
your  cheek, — the  rich,  red  poutiness  of  your  lip  may 
fade  into  whiteness, — the  large  and  lustrous  eye  may 
grow  languid  in  its  hidden  grief, — but  the  soul  will 
not  lose  its  tyrant  passion.  It  has  commenced  its 
reign,  and  will  hold  its  sceptre  over  your  heart  for 
ever. 

Poor  Jane ! 

How  wonderful  is  the  instinctive  impulse  given  us 
by  our  Creator  to  love.  In  its  regulated  purity,  how 
valuable  it  is  to  the  happiness, — nay,  the  very  exist 
ence  of  the  race.  The  mere  intellectuality  of  friend 
ship  does  not  account  for  it ;  the  mere  tie  of  animal 
convenience  does  not  produce  it.  When  it  bubbles 
up  in  a  young  heart,  it  is  but  the  welling  forth  of  a 
sacred  instinct,  designed  by  Grod  to  furnish  the  full 
tide  of  the  heart's  feelings,  on  which  may  float  all 
that  is  joyous  and  happy  and  heaven-directed  in  our 
nature. 

The  dear  and  tender  ties  of  the  family,  with  all 
their  lovely  and  loved  connections  on  earth,  and  the 
dearer  and  more  enduring  ties  of  the  great  family  of 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  145 

heaven,  depend  upon  this  instinct.  Let  it  not  be 
checked  when  it  buds  in  the  young  heart.  There  are 
but  fewer  happier  moments  on  earth  than  when  the 
fragrance  of  a  new  passion  begins  to  exude  from  the 
soul.  Its  purity  is  unmixed  by  a  single  stain  of  earth ; 
cherish  it  in  its  simplicity  and  delicate  innocence. 
It  is  a  fragrance  that  ne'er  again  shall  steep  the 
senses  of  the  soul  in  its  new-born  joy.  Extinguish 
not  the  infantile  flickering  of  its  innocuous  blaze.  "  It 
is  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again  on  life's  dull 
stream." 

Happy  Jane ! 
7 


146       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES J 


CHAPTEK  XIX. 

"  Section.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 
Dogberry.  Marry  1  that  be  I  and  my  partner." 

Shakspeare. 

11  WELL,  neighbor  Steele,  are  you  ready  to  go  up  to 
the  court-room  to-day.  I  have  finished  picking  my 
corn,  and  there  is  no  hurry  about  the  potatoes,  so  that 
I  can  spend  a  half  day  as  well  as  not ;  so  I  think  I 
shall  go  and  hear  all  this  strange  news." 

"  I  have  determined  to  do  the  same  thing,  Cor 
poral  Bull,  and  am  all  ready.  But  what  is  the 
news  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  John  Barnard  was  in  my  house 
this  morning  to  borrow  my  drogue  to  draw  stone,  and 
he  said  that  Sergeant  Wadsworth  had  returned  last 
night,  bringing  Samoset  and  Hal  Dudley  as  prison- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  147 

ers.  They  say  that  Samoset  and  Hal  gathered  a 
large  band  of  Indians,  and  carried  off  Jane  Seymour, 
when  she  was  walking  in  her  uncle's  garden.  "Wads- 
worth  found  the  Indians  out  in  the  woods,  and  killed 
the  most  of  them.  Samoset  and  Hal  were  brought  in 
as  prisoners,  with  their  arms  tied,  and  are  to  be  tried 
to-day." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

"  Yes :  and  they  do  say  that  Edward  and  Hal 
had  a  fight,  and  that  Hal  was  dragged  into  town." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  Edward  Dudley  fought  with 
his  brother,  Corporal,— he  is  too  good  a  lad  for  that ; 
but  that  Hal  is  a  perfect  cavalier,  and  rants  and 
raves  about,  and  orders  common  men  around,  just  as 
if,  here  in  the  wilderness,  one  man  is  not  as  good  as 
another.  But  was  there  any  thing  else  ?  Was  Jane 
Seymour  hurt  ?" 

"  No  :  some  persons  do  think  she  went  off  on  pur 
pose  to  live  with  Master  Hal  in  the  woods  with  the 
Indians  ;  and  some  say  she  was  carried  off.  We  shall 
learn  the  whole  truth  in  the  court-room." 

The  magistrates,  with  Governor  Haynes  at  their 
head,  had  assembled  at  the  Town  House  for  the  trial 
of  the  various  cases  that  came  before  them. 

The  first  case  that  was  called  was  the  complaint 
made  by  Sergeant  Wads  worth  against  Henry  Dudley. 


148 

The  Sergeant  stated  the  double  cause  of  his  com 
plaint, — the  contempt  of  his  military  authority,  and 
the  breach  of  the  Sabbath  laws  by  unnecessary  loud 
talking  on  other  than  religious  topics,  in  a  blustering 
manner. 

Henry  was  asked  for  his  defence,  and  whether  he 
had  employed  counsel.  His  brother  very  modestly 
stepped  forward,  and  said,  that  though  only  a  student 
of  the  law,  he  requested  the  privilege  of  being  his 
brother's  advocate ;  which  privilege  was  accorded  to 
him  by  the  General  Court. 

No  attempt  was  made  to  deny  the  first  charge  ; 
but  Edward  claimed,  that  if  it  was  a  crime  against 
the  military  authority  of  Sergeant  Wads  worth,  the 
present  court  was  incompetent  to  hear  the  complaint, 
not  being  a  regularly  constituted  court-martial  5  and 
that  it  could  be  tried  only  by  such  a  court.  Also, 
that  as  Henry  was  not  an  enlisted  soldier,  and  be 
longing  regularly  to  the  party,  he  was  not  under  the 
strict  obligations  of  military  rule,  so  far  as  respect  to 
the  commander  was  concerned. 

All  this  Edward  stated  in  a  modest  and  calm 
manner,  that  was  not  in  the  least  offensive  to  the 
General  Court.  He  argued  that  supreme  military 
authority  or  rule  was  one  of  those  subjects  from  which 
the  honorable  Court  had  fled  into  this  wilderness ; 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  149 

that  the  principle  under  which  the  new  colony  was 
founded  was  the  paramount  character  of  the  civil 
law ;  and  that  law  should  be  above  both  the  tyranny 
of  the  church  and  the  power  of  the  sword. 

As  to  the  second  offence,  he  begged  the  magis 
trates  to  consider  his  brother's  situation, — all  that  he 
had  endured,  and  all  that  he  had  feared, — and  re 
member  that  the  operation  of  such  causes  would  lead 
him  to  forget  the  sacredness  of  the  day  in  his  irrita 
bility.  .. 

During  this  first  public  effort  of  his  eldest  son, 
Col.  Dudley  sat  unmoved  in  his  usual  seat  on  the 
magistrates'  bench.  He  listened  calmly,  as  the  other 
judges.  Not  a  feeling  of  the  relation  in  which  he 
stood  to  the  accused  and  his  advocate  could  be  traced 
on  his  immovable  countenance. 

After  a  short  deliberation,  in  which  Col.  Dudley 
was  consulted,  and  in  which  he  acquiesced,  Governor 
Haynes  arose,  and  gave  the  decision  of  the  Court : 
"  That,  inasmuch  as  the  power  of  the  General  Court, 
which  commissions  military  officers,  must  be  consid 
ered  involved  in  the  creations  which  it  makes,  the 
Court  consider  that  they  have  jurisdiction  in  the 
present  case,  and  must  equally  uphold  the  military  as 
the  civil  authority  emanating  from  themselves ;  and, 
moreover,  secondly,  as  the  Sabbath  is  made  binding 


150       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  I 


by  God  himself  upon  all  mankind,  it  must  be  binding 
under  all  circumstances  in  which  man  can  be  placed, 
and  under  all  frames  of  temper  and  modes  of  dispo 
sition  ; — they,  therefore,  do  find  the  accused,  Henry 
Dudley,  guilty  of  the  two  offences  alleged  against  him 
by  Sergeant  James  "Wadsworth :  but  that,  in  consid 
eration  of  the  youth  of  the  accused,  and  the  trial 
which  he  had  undergone  from  the  wily  adversaries 
which  surround  us,  they  do  adjudge  him  to  be  pub 
licly  reprimanded  by  the  General  Court;  and  that 
after  the  reprimand,  he  be  dismissed  from  custody." 

The  reprimand  was  a  solemn  one,  delivered  by 
Governor  Haynes ;  but,  we  fear,  had  little  other 
effect  than  to  excite  still  farther  the  irritation  of 
our  young  hero.  He  was  about  leaving  the  Court 
without  expressing  it,  when  the  case  of  the  Indian 
prisoners  was  called,  and  he  was  ordered  to  stay  as  a 
witness. 

As  arrangements  were  making  for  the  bringing  in 
of  the  criminals,  Mr.  Culick  whispered  to  Edward, 
"  Very  well,  my  young  pupil,  for  a  first  effort.  But 
remember,  in  your  pleas,  never  to  adduce  arguments 
that  will  contradict  each  other.  One  reason,  strongly 
dwelt  upon,  will  have  more  effect  than  several  inde 
pendent  arguments,  where  one  must  of  necessity  tram 
ple  down  the  others." 


OE,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  i51 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  Barnardine.  I  will  not  consent  to  die,  this  day,  that's  certain. 
Duke.  O,  Sir,  you  must :  and  therefore  I  beseech  you, 

Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 

Barnard.  I  swear,  I  will  not  die  to-day  for  any  man's  persuasion." 

ShaJsspeare. 

SAMOSET  and  the  young  Mohawk  were  then  intro 
duced  by  the  jailer,  an  interpreter  sworn,  and  their 
indictment  read.  As  the  trial  proceeded,  Henry's 
testimony  was  delivered  fully  and  clearly  as  to  the 
deception  practised  upon  him  by  Samoset,  and  the 
stratagems  employed  to  obtain  possession  of  himself 
and  Jane.  He  swore  distinctly  to  Samoset's  agency 
in  bringing  about  the  interview,  and  the  reason  he 
had  to  desire  it.  As  he  loudly  and  promptly  repeated 
his  love  for  Jane  Seymour,  as  the  excuse  or  reason 
for  soliciting  the  interview,  he  looked  at  his  father, — 


152       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

any  one  acquainted  with  their  disagreement  on  that 
topic,  would  have  said,  with  an  air  of  defiance.  But 
the  Colonel  preserved  the  same  imperturbable  ex 
pression  of  countenance,  like  a  second  Brutus.  When 
Henry  arrived  at  the  conversation  he  had  held  with 
Jane,  he  hesitated,  and  finally  said  he  had  been  un 
successful  in  his  suit. 

Samoset  knew  only  enough  of  English  to  follow 
him  a  little,  but  the  interpreter  rendered  the  sub 
stance  to  him  in  his  own  language.  When  Henry 
mentioned  his  rejection,  Samoset  turned,  with  his 
glistening  eye,  upon  Henry,  and  uttered,  with  a  sarcas 
tic  sneer,  in  English,  "  Good — good ! "  Henry  shook 
his  fist  at  the  prisoner  with  ungoverned  rage,  but 
Samoset  had  assumed  his  usual  stolidity  of  aspect. 

The  facts  against  him  were  abundantly  proved  by 
Sergeant  Wadsworth,  Corporal  Webster,  and  one  or 
two  of  the  privates.  Against  the  Mohawk,  the  fact 
of  his  connection  with  the  marauding  band  and  with 
the  abduction  of  both  Dudley  and  Jane,  was  abun 
dantly  proved.  Corporal  Webster  swore  to  his  cap 
ture  and  his  resistance. 

When  Samoset  was  asked  for  his  defence,  he 
flung  oif  at  once  the  sneaking,  wily,  deceptive  charac 
ter  he  had  hitherto  sustained,  and  replied  boldly  in 
his  native  language  :  "  Have  I  aught  to  say  in  my 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  153 

defence  ?  Yes,  Judge  of  the  Pale  Faces.  I  have 
but  acted  up  to  the  nature  of  my  race.  The  Young 
Eagle  had  insulted  me  and  my  nation,  by  making 
me  his  slave  to  fetch  and  carry  his  messages.  I 
chose  to  let  him  see  I  was  his  dog  no  longer.  The 
bright-eyed  Fawn  of  the  Pale  Faces  had  been 
rescued  by  this  arm  from  death ;  by  the  laws  of  our 
tribes,  she  was  my  wife,  and  I  but  seized  my  own. 
Your  whole  race  have  been  the  enemies  of  me  and 
of  my  kin.  You  have  wrested  from  us,  by  what  you 
choose  to  call  a  purchase,  the  very  homes  of  our  tribes 
and  the  burial-places  of  our  fathers.  Think  you  not 
that  we  shall  avenge  whenever  in  our  power  ?  You 
have  driven  us  from  our  hunting-grounds  ;  the  game 
is  no  longer  in  plenty  around  us,  and  we  are  con 
strained  to  travel  far  towards  the  setting  sun  to  reach 
enough  to  save  us  from  starvation.  You  have  driven 
us  from  our  fishing-grounds,  and  we  are  now  restricted 
to  the  little  streams  near  yonder  mountains.  You 
have  driven  us  from  our  corn-grounds,  and  they  now 
smile  in  their  ripeness  under  your  culture.  The  Red 
Man  has  a  body  that  requires  to  be  fed, — he  cannot 
live  upon  air, — he  feels  thesp  deprivations,  and  he  re 
sents  them.  The  Red  Man  has  a  soul;  an  insult 
stings  him  as  deeply  and  rankles  as  sorely  as  it  does 

in  the  Pale  Face's  spirit.      Will   he  not   revenge? 
7* 


154       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES 


The  Red  Man  has  a  heart ;  he  can  feel  the  beauty  of 
the  Fawn  of  the  Pale  Faces  as  well  as  the  white 
stripling.  He  protected  her  from  the  bear, — the 
young  Pale  Face  could  not  from  the  Red  Men.  Has 
he  not  a  right  to  what  he  has  conquered  ?  Such  is 
my  defence,  Sachem  of  the  Pale  Faces.  Torture  me 
as  you  will, — a  Red  Man  can  endure  it." 

Upon  this  speech  being  interpreted,  —  though 
most  of  his  hearers  knew  enough  of  the  dialect  of  the 
neighboring  tribes  to  follow  the  oratory  of  the  Indian, 
— Governor  Haynes  rose,  and  turning  calmly  to 
Samoset,  said  :  "  All  that  you  have  uttered  furnishes 
no  excuse  for  the  violence  of  which  you  have  been 
guilty.  This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  a  contro 
versy  respecting  the  rights  of  purchase  under  which 
we  hold  that  property  which  once  was  yours.  Allow 
ing  that  every  one  of  your  reasons  has  a  foundation 
in  truth,  they  apply  not  to  you  as  an  individual  to 
cover  your  individual  wrong  actions.  They  apply 
only  to  your  nation.  Neither  do  the  laws  of  civilized 
man,  nor  any  laws  that  we  recognize,  allow  such  deep 
revenge  for  fancied  insults,  or  admit  such  a  futile 
claim  to  the  woman  you  may  have  rescued. 

"  Interpreter,  ask  the  other  criminal  whether  he 
has  any  thing  to  offer  in  his  defence." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  interpreter  spoke   to  him 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  155 

in  the  Tunxis  language.  He  stood  in  the  box,  with 
eyes  seemingly  fixed  on  the  distance,  as  if  the  scenes 
and  deeds,  and  words,  passing  around  him,  were  but 
the  idle  wind.  Samoset  was  ordered  to  address  him 
in  his  own  tongue,  to  whom  the  Mohawk  replied  in  a 
low,  quick  tone,  as  if  unwilling  that  his  intense  medi 
tations  should  be  disturbed.  Samoset,  directing  his 
looks  at  the  Court,  said,  "  The  young  Mohawk  de 
clares  that  through  his  carelessness  as  sentinel,  in  his 
first  war-path,  this  evil  has  come  upon  his  father  and 
brothers,  and  the  braves  of  his  tribe.  He  asks  no 
favor,  but  will  show  the  Pale  Faces  how  a  Mohawk 
can  endure  the  torture  and  triumph  at  the  stake." 

After  some  short  consultation,  the  decision  of  the 
Court  was,  that  the  two  Indians,  Samoset  and  the 
unknown  Mohawk,  should  remain  in  close  confinement 
until  the  sailing  of  the  next  vessel  to  the  "West  In 
dies,  which  would  be  in  a  few  days,  when  they  were 
to  be  consigned  to  the  captain  to  be  sold  as  slaves,  as 
a  punishment  for  the  crimes  which  they  had  com 
mitted. 


156       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"He  who 

Once  hates,  may  smile,  may  flatter,  may  assist, 
But  ne'er  forgives.    He  smiles  to  lure  the  wretch 
More  surely  to  the  net,  and  favors  given 
Are  but  the  fattening  that  the  cannibal 

His  victim  gives." 

Revenge :  a  Drama. 

THE  morning  after  the  trial,  the  town  was  agitated 
by  the  rumor  that  the  Indian  prisoners  had  escaped 
from  the  jail  during  the  night  before — a  foggy  and 
dark  night.  It  seemed  evident  that  they  had  received 
assistance  from  some  lurking  Indian  without,  for  the 
tracks  of  three  pairs  of  moccasons  were  traced  to  the 
ford  of  the  Little  River  in  the  rear  of  the  prison,  on 
the  next  morning.  The  bars  of  the  windows  had 
been  pushed  from  their  fastenings,  and  a  leap  of 
some  fifteen  feet  had  been  taken  from  the  window. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  157 

Governor  Haynes  collected  his  council,  who  or 
dered  Webster  and  six  others  to  follow  the  trail, 
while  they  summoned  the  jailor  and  his  assistant, 
fined  them  two  pounds  apiece,  and  dismissed  them 
from  their  employments. 

Webster  returned  by  noon,  without  having  been 
able  to  discover  the  trail,  beyond  the  Little  River. 
Some  excitement  prevailed  at  this  escape,  and  more 
was  experienced  when  intelligence  was  received  in  the 
afternoon,  that  two  cows  had  been  killed  with  arrows, 
in  the  Cow  Pasture,  and  some  of  their  flesh  carried 
off,  and  that  Robert  Deming  had  been  shot  at,  as  he 
was  returning  from  beyond  the  Ox  Pasture. 

The  fear  of  an  Indian  attack  was  much  increased 
in  the  evening  early,  by  the  burning  of  John  Bar 
nard's  barn,  beyond  what  is  now  Cooper  Lane.  Gov 
ernor  Haynes's  measures  were  prompt.  He  made  a 
speech  to  the  people,  in  which  he  told  them  that  pro 
bably  three  or  four  men  constituted  the  whole  number 
of  their  foes.  He  sent  a  guard  to  Barnard's,  sum 
moned  the  men-at-arms,  and  doubled  the  town  senti 
nels'. 

Meanwhile,  the  attacks  of  the  few  concealed  In 
dians  seemed  now  to  concentrate  on  Capt.  Seymour's 
premises.  A  burning  arrow  was  shot  on  the  roof  of 
one  of  the  barns,  but  was  extinguished. 


158       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

While  Jane  stood  at  an  open  garret  window, 
watching  the  distant  blaze  of  Barnard's  barn,  an  ar 
row  struck  near  her  on  the  window-frame.  She  closed 
the  sash,  and  carried  the  weapon  to  her  uncle,  who 
fairly  boiled  with  rage  at  the  insult. 

"  This  is  Samoset's,"  said  Jim  Cook,  one  of  the 
Captain's  hired  men ;  "  I  saw  him  last  week,  making 
just  such  an  arrow,  and  he  took  our  turkey's  feathers, 
that  we  had  just  killed." 

As  a  security,  the  Captain  ordered  lights  into 
every  room,  to  show  the  Indians  that  the  family  were 
aroused,  and  set  guards  of  his  men  and  maids  in 
various  parts  of  his  premises,  with  orders  to  fire  at 
once  upon  any  intruders.  At  the  same  time,  he  de 
spatched  a  messenger  to  the  Magistrates,  with  a  re 
quest  for  assistance.  The  old  soldier  knew  enough 
of  border  warfare  to  be  prepared  at  every  point  for  a 
savage  attack,  but  failed  in  that  essential  requisite  in 
all  night  skirmishes — coolness.  He  was  a  warrior  of 
the  old  chivalrous  stamp,  ready  to  give  and  take 
blows  in  open  encounter,  in  daylight,  and  to  be  among 
the  foremost  in  a  desperate  assault.  But  night  work 
and  savage  fighting  were  too  sneaking,  as  he  called  it, 
to  be  submitted  to  with  patience,  and  he  fumed  and 
fretted  around  his  inclosures,  now  in  one  spot  and 
now  in  another,  not  in  the  most  amiable  frame  of 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  159 

mind,  waiting  for  the  attack  that  did  not  seem  ready 
to  come  as  he  called  for  it. 

He  made  himself  hoarse  at  once  by  calling  out : 
"  Come  on,  you  copper-colored  villains ;  show  your 
selves  in  fair,  open  fight :  no  dodging  behind  the 
trees  in  the  dark.  Come  on,  the  old  man  is  ready  for 
you." 

But  he  fumed  still  more  when  his  messenger  re 
turned  from  the  settlement,  and  brought  word  that 
the  Magistrates  had  no  reinforcements  to  spare,  but 
urged  him  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  block-house  with 
his  family. 

The  old  Captain  went  raving  mad.  He  cursed 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  all  the  dastardly  Roundheads 
that  governed  Hartford.  He  swore  that  he  never 
would  sneak  into  the  block-house,  but  defend  himself 
as  he  might  on  his  own  premises,  and  be  burnt  with 
all  his  buildings  and  goods,  if  the  Indians  so  chose. 

"  Did  nobody  say  any  thing  in  help  of  the  old 
Cavalier  ?  Did  none  of  the  rascally,  snivelling, 
psalm-singing,  hypocrites  offer  to  assist  an  old  man 
in  his  extreme  trouble  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  messenger,  "  Edward  and 
Henry  Dudley  both  offered  to  accompany  me,  but 
the  Colonel,  who  was  with  the  Magistrates,  would  not 
allow  it." 


160 


"By ,"  said  the  irritated  Seymour,  "I'll  pay 

the  old  Roundhead  to-morrow,  if  God  and  these 
cursed  Indians  spare  my  life.  I'll  go  to  the  council 
and  shame  him  before  them  all.  I  will — so  help  me 
Satan  !  But  stir,  stir,  all  of  you.  There  is  another 
fiery  arrow  darting  through  the  sky,  down  near  the 
sheep  barn.  Thank  G-od,  the  fog  is  up  and  heavy, 
and  the  shingles  are  new.  But  run — run." 

No  evil  was  experienced  from  the  arrow,  for  it 
was  extinguished  before  it  reached  the  roof. 

"  I  saw,"  said  Cook,  running  in  breathlessly, 
"  where  the  rascals  stood  that  fired  that  arrow.  I 
can  mark  them,  if  they  fire  again,  by  creeping  through 
the  tall  corn  of  the  garden  and  corn-field  down  to  the 
white  oak  in  the  corner,  near  the  pond." 

"  Run — run,  then,  Jim,  and  pick  them  off." 

"  Don't  expose  yourself,  James,"  said  Jane,  "  un 
necessarily  ;  we  cannot  spare  one  of  our  defenders." 

"  Go  in  the  house,  wench  ;  what  do  you  know  of 
war  ?  Soldiers  must  expose  themselves.  Go  into  the 
house,  and  keep  out  of  harm's  way." 

As  he  spoke,  an  arrow,  shot  up  in  a  circle,  de 
scended  and  struck  on  her  shoulder.  She  pulled  it 
out,  and  stanched  the  blood  with  her  handkerchief. 
"  What,  wounded  ?  I  told  you  so.  Go  into  the 
house,  and  some  one  will  see  to  it." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  161 

The  report  of  fire-arms  now  came  booming  through 
the  fields.  "  There  goes  Jim  Cook's  matchlock. 
He  had  a  good  rest  behind  the  white  oak,  and  has 
done  something,  I  hope,  with  one  of  the  tawny-skinned 
rascals." 

"  I  hope,"  said  another  of  the  hired  men,  "  that 
Jim  -remembers  the  rule  in  savage  fights,  not  to  re 
main  behind  the  tree  he  shot  from  long,  but  to  rush 
to  another.  Ah  !  here  he  comes  !  " 

"  I  saw  the  rascal  step  out  of  the  bushes  into  the 
cleared  ground,  to  direct  his  arrow  at  the  house,  and 
took  long  aim,  but  my  rest  slipped.  He  stood  still, 
however,  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  arrow,  as  he  heard 
Miss  Jane  scream.  I  had  then  an  opportunity  to  fix 
the  rest  again,  and  took  good  aim  with  the  match 
lock.  I  knew  I  hit  him,  for  he  jumped  up  several 
feet  in  the  air,  and  fell  on  the  dark  ground.  I  could 
not  see  him  stir  afterward,  but  I  thought  he  could  as 
well  lie  there  till  to-morrow,  for  I  did  not  know  how 
many  more  there  might  have  been  concealed." 

So  passed  the  night,  in  agitation  and  alarm. 
Jane's  wound  was  not  dangerous,  but  kept  the  fe 
males  of  the  family  busy.  No  further  attempt  was 
made  on  Seymour's  premises,  though  strict  watch  was 
kept  up  during  the  night. 


162       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"Who  will  believe  tbee,  Isabel? 
My  unsoil'd  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life, 
My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state, 
Will  so  your  accusation  ovenveigh, 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report, 
And  smell  of  calumny." 

Shakspeare. 

ON  the  next  morning,  an  early  investigation  ascer 
tained  that  the  Indian  killed  by  Cook  the  night 
before  was  the  young  Mohawk  who  had  escaped  from 
prison,  and  it  was  at  once  concluded  that  all  the  mis 
chief  and  alarm,  attempted  or  perpetrated,  the  night 
before,  had  been  accomplished  by  him  and  Samoset. 

The  Magistrates  were  called  to  an  early  session 
to  examine  into  the  various  transactions  of  the  previ 
ous  night.  The  death  of  the  Mohawk  being  reported, 
a  coroner's  jury  was  empanelled,  as  a  mere  matter  of 
form,  before  his  burial.  Of  course,  Capt.  Seymour, 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  163 

his  servants  and  family,  were  summoned  to  testify. 
The  Captain,  irritated  by  the  .refusal  of  assistance 
during  the  past  dangers,  was  very  ready  to  attend, 
declaring  that  he  would  give  the  Magistrates  and  Col 
onel  Dudley  a  piece  of  his  mind. 

"  He  was  determined,"  he  said,  "  to  be  revenged 
on  the  old  Puritan  Roundhead  for  all  the  evil  he  had 
done  to  him." 

He,  therefore,  ordered  his  whole  household  to  at 
tend,  heavily  armed  ;  and  even  his  niece,  though  fee 
ble  from  her  wound,  was  compelled  to  be  present. 
The  old  man  was  in  a  feverish  state  of  anxiety  all  the 
morning,  as  if  he  meditated  something  to  which  he 
could  hardly  reconcile  his  conscience  or  his  feelings. 

The  Magistrates'  Court  opened  early,  and,  after 
hearing  the  report  of  the  sentinels  and  scouts,  and  all 
the  evidence  that  could  be  collected  respecting  the 
burning  of  John  Barnard's  barn,  the  coroner's  in 
quest  was  called. 

In  the  mean  time,  Seymour  had  sat,  lowering 
through  his  shaggy  eyebrows  on  the  whole  body,  but 
more  especially  on  Col.  Dudley.  When  his  eyes 
rested  on  him,  it  seemed  as  if  the  most  intense 
hatred  lighted  up  their  orbs,  but  the  same  uneasiness 
of  expression  mingled  with  the  hatred. 

Jane  had  taken  her  seat  in  the  corner  of  the 


164       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

court-room,  pale  from  the  effects  of  her  wound,  her 
left  arm  in  a  sling,  and  her  face  sometimes  flushed 
with  the  novelty  of  the  situation,  and,  at  others,  wan 
from  the  loss  of  blood.  Henry  Dudley  was  at  her 
side  in  a  moment,  regardless  of  the  gaze  of  the  multi 
tude,  the  frowns  of  his  father,  or  the  low  muttering 
of  Capt.  Seymour,  "  You'll  wish  yourself  somewhere 
else,  soon." 

Edward  Dudley  was  among  the  lawyers  on  their 
usual  seats,  but  regarding  the  whole  scene  with  an 
interest  that  would  betray  itself  in  spite  of  his  usu 
ally  well-governed  feelings  and  well-regulated  coun 
tenance. 

The  examination  of  the  family  of  Capt.  Seymour 
was  full  as  to  all  the  events  of  the  previous  night,  as 
the  Magistrates  wished  not  only  to  satisfy  the  requi 
sitions  of  the  law  respecting  the  death  of  the  Indian, 
but  to  obtain  information  concerning  the  whole  trans 
actions  of  the  night,  and  ascertain  how  general  an 
Indian  insurrection  was  to  be  apprehended. 

Capt.  Seymour  dwelt  with  considerable  length  and 
some  exaggeration  on  the  danger  of  his  family,  and 
the  "  dastardly  cowardice  and  partiality,"  as  he 
termed  it,  of  the  Magistrates,  in  not  sending  him  as 
sistance.  To  these  allusions,  Governor  Hayncs 
gave  no  apparent  attention.  He  was  very  much 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  165 

in  the  habit  of  investigating  but  one  particular  at  a 
time. 

Jane's  testimony  was  simple  and  to  the  point,  of 
her  wound's  being  caused  by  an  arrow  shot  from  the 
very  spot  where  the  Mohawk  was  killed.  There  was 
a  murmur  of  approbation  in  the  crowded  court-room 
at  the  exceeding  fascination  of  her  beauty,  as  she 
modestly  but  clearly  told  her  story.  Even  the  older 
men  among  the  Magistrates  were  softened  at  her  ap 
pearance,  and  listened  with  deference — all  but  Col. 
Dudley,  who  shut  his  eyes  as  she  was  called,  and 
never  opened  them  until  her  testimony  was  ended. 

This  being  finished,  Governor  Haynes  very  briefly 
directed  the  foreman  of  the  Jury  what  verdict  to 
render,  and  ordered  the  proper  oflicers  to  see  to  the 
burial  of  the  body.  He  then  turned  to  Capt.  Sey 
mour  : — "  The  subject  of  law  being  settled,  the  Ma 
gistrates  are  now  ready  to  answer  and  reprove  such 
complaints  as  may  be  made  against  their  decisions. 
They  stand  ready,  Captain  Richard  Seymour,  to  in 
flict  a  fine  upon  you,  for  an  open  contempt  of  their 
decisions,  but  take  into  consideration  the  peculiar  ex 
citement  under  which  you  labor.  The  erection  of 
your  house  at  such  a  distance  from  the  settlement 
has  always  been  disapproved  of  by  the  General  Court. 
It  has  placed  you  out  of  the  reach  of  the  spiritual 


166       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

privileges  every  true  well-wisher  of  the  colony  values. 
It  has  cut  you  off  from  those  legal  and  necessary  re 
straints  and  duties  of  watch  and  ward,  to  which  we 
are  all  subject.  This  being  the  case,  we  have  thought 
it  best  to  leave  you  to  your  own  resources  of  defence, 
and,  as  you  had  not  cast  in  your  lot  among  us,  not  to 
protect  you  in  return.  It  was  therefore  resolved, 
last  night,  on  motion  of  our  beloved  brother,  Colonel 
Dudley,  not  to  send  such  reinforcements  as  you  de 
manded,  especially  as  they  were  believed  to  be  more 
needed  in  another  quarter." 

"  And  so,  unless  I  will  unite  in  the  farce  of  what 
you  call  divine  worship,  and  become  as  sneaking  and 
vile  dissenters  as  ye  are,  I  and  mine  are  to  be  left  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  the  savage?  Is  this  your 
boasted  piety  ?  I  claimed  the  protection  of  the  law 
you  boast  of,  and  am  told  I  cannot  have  it,  unless  I 
cant,  and  whine,  and  sing  psalms,  like  you !  So  it 
was  '  our  beloved  brother,'  Colonel  Thomas  Dudley, 
that  left  me  to  the  attacks  of  the  savages  ?  I'll  un 
mask  you,  you  hypocrite  !  I'll  tell  a  tale  that  shall 
make  your  blood  forsake  your  cheeks  more  than  it 
does  now.  Listen,  ye  holy  and  pure  men,  as  ye  think 
yourselves,  and.  know  what  a  hollow-hearted  and 
worthless  wretch  ye  have  fostered  among  you." 

Here  several  of  the  Magistrates  arose  to  interrupt 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  167 

him.  "  Let  him  alone,"  said  Col.  Dudley,  calmly, 
though  very  pale  ;  "  if  it  must  eome,  it  may  be  as  well 
now  as  at  any  time." 

"  Listen  !  "  bellowed  out  the  enraged  and  excited 
old  man,  fairly  frothing  at  the  mouth  in  his  fury. 
"  Ye  guardians  of  the  public  morality,  and  planters 
of  the  only  pure  and  true  faith  in  the  wilderness,  as 
ye  call  yourselves,  your  hero  and  saint,  who  sits  among 
you  as  a  '  beloved  brother,'  was  a  rake  and  a  de 
bauchee  before  he  left  his  native  England,  and  yon 
affrighted  girl,  that  sits  trembling  in  the  corner,  is 
the  offspring  of  his  illicit  love.  I  have  told  you  this 
before,  Thomas  Dudley,  and  you  know  that  she,  who 
is  called  in  the  world  by  the  name  of  Jane  Seymour, 
is  the  daughter  of  Alice  Lee,  whom  you  betrayed  in 
the  bloom  of  her  youth.  Do  ye  hear  it,  ye  canting 
hypocrites  ?" 

Oh,  how  different  was  the  aspect  of  the  two  men ! 
They  were  both  pale,  but  Seymour's  eyes  were  blaz 
ing  in  the  light  of  gratified  hatred  and  consummated 
revenge,  while  Dudley's  fixed  gaze  seemed  to  express 
sorrow  and  shame  more  than  anger.  He  did  not 
turn  his  eyes  towards  his  sons,  nor  notice  the  confu 
sion  in  the  corner  where  Jane  sat.  He  was  standing, 
and  essayed  to  speak,  though  evidently  almost  chok 
ing  under  the  attempt. 


168       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

"  I  warned  you  of  this,"  broke  in  Capt.  Seymour, 
with  increased  violence,  "  when  you  insulted  me  be 
fore  the  General  Court,  last  year.  I  warned  you  of 
this  when  I  privately  showed  you  the  proofs  of  this 
secret,  and  made  you  acknowledge  my  pretended  niece 
was  the  perfect  image  of  Alice  Lee.  I  told  you, 
then,  that  the  next  insult  would  meet  with  public  dis 
grace,  and  you  have  it  now,  you  canting,  sneaking  hy 
pocrite  !  And  yet  you  went  on,  and  allowed  your 
son  to  play  the  lover  to  his  own  sister,  and  to  court 
her  affections  ;  and  you  did  not  dare,  coward  as  you 
are,  to  confess  to  him  what  a  bed  of  coals  he  was 
kindling  for  his  own  affections.  But  now  the  secret 
is  out,  I  shall  not  even  give  up  the  long-neglected 
daughter.  She  shall  be  my  niece  still,  and  inherit 
my  property.  I  swore  to  Alice  Lee  that  I  would 
protect  her  child,  as  long  as  the  blood  flowed  in  my 
veins.  That  oath  I  shall  keep.  I  have  left  misery 
enough  in  your  family  to  satisfy  my  revenge.  It 
shall  never  be  visited  on  her  head,  but  I  thank  God, 
none  of  your  breed  can  now  marry  her." 

Col.  Dudley  again  calmly  waved  his  hand  to  speak, 
when  Governor  Haynes  interfered :  "  Permit  me, 
Brother  Dudley  ;  this  matter  belongs  to  the  church 
and  to  us.  Bold,  bad  man,"  said  he,  turning  to  Sey 
mour,  "  do  you  take  your  oath  that  this  tale  is  true  ?" 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  169 

"  So  help  me  God,"  said  the  Captain,  trembling 
with  rage,  "  if  this  damsel,  called  Jane  Seymour,  is 
not  the  daughter  of  Alice  Lee  !  " 

"  Enough,"  responded  the  Governor.  "  Brethren 
of  the  Church  of  Hartford,  and  Magistrates  of  the 
colony  of  Connecticut,  hear  ye.  This  story  is  no  new 
one  to  us,  and  to  the  pastor  and  committee  of  our 
church.  When  Col.  Dudley  presented  himself  to 
unite  with  this  church,  he  told  us  how,  in  the  dissipa 
tions  and  excesses  of  youth,  Satan  lured  him  astray, 
and  that,  as  he  g  jposed,  there  existed  a  proof  of  the 
great  sin  '  lier  days.  He  related  to  us  the 

circumsta  e  intimate  connection  with  Alice 

Lee,  his  s  '•-"';  <ent  separation  from  her,  and  ardent 
but  unsuccessful  endeavors  to  trace  her  out,  until  he 
had,  as  he  supposed,  abundant  proof  of  her  death. 
Not  until  long  after  this,  did  he  unite  himself  to 
Anne  Stanley,  his  present  worthy  lady.  Nor  did  he 
form  that  union  without  relating  to  her  every  circum 
stance  of  his  early,  unfortunate,  but  apparently  guilty 
attachment.  Being  convinced  of  his  deep  penitence 
of  this  and  of  his  other  faults,  and  of  his  trust  that 
his  guilt  had  been  washed  out  in  the  blood  of  the 
Saviour,  we  admitted  him  to  regular  standing  in  the 
church.  The  expected  disgrace  of  this  assault,  there 
fore,  falls  to  the  ground,  and  the  malice  of  that  wick- 
8 


170       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES  ', 

ed  man  fails  of  its  aim,  except  as  it  crushes  the  affec 
tions  and  harrows  up  the  feelings  of  the  young." 

"  I  have  but  to  add,"  said  Deacon  Nichols,  "  that 
the  church  did  not  think  this  youthful  crime  of  Bro 
ther  Dudley  required  any  public  atonement,  in  a  set 
tlement  so  distant  and  a  period  so  remote  from  the 
event.  It  was  therefore  resolved  to  keep  it  within 
the  breast  of  the  church  committee.  If  it  has  in 
jured  the  happiness  of  the  young,  I  shall  grieve  that 
such  a  decision  was  formed." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  171 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"Sins  of  my  youth! 

That  stand,  in  troops,  about  my  memory, 
And  hover  blackly  o'er  my  path  of  life, 
Haunt  me  not  thus !    Are  ye  not  wash'd  away 
In  the  Redeemer's  blood  ?    Has  not  true  faith 
And  penitence  the  mighty  balance  struck  ? 
Hence !    Let  me  die  in  hope  1 " 

The  Convict :  a  Tragedy. 

"  THE  "brethren,"  said  Col.  Dudley,  "  will  allow  me 
to  state  a  few  circumstances  connected  with  this  long- 
repented  crime — if  crime  it  be.  When  my  heart  was 
young,  and  my  affections  warm,  I  came  across  the 
beautiful  Alice  Lee,  at  the  house  of  a  distant  relative. 
I  need  not  describe  to  you  how  beautiful — her  very 
image  has  stood  before  you  this  day,  and  excited  your 
murmuring  approbation.  She  was  ignorant  of  the 
world — artless  and  confiding.  A  violent  attachment 


172  THE    FAW^T   OF    THE    PALE    FACES; 

arose  between  us.  I  wonder  now  at  the  strength  and 
unreasonableness  of  that  attachment,  as  I  look  back 
upon  it.  It  was  idolatry — the  creature  was  really 
worshipped.  Our  attachment  was  kept  secret,  of  ne 
cessity — for  she  was  dowerless,  and  my  father,  in  the 
haughtiness  of  his  nobility,  would  have  disdained  to 
sanction  a  union  between  his  son  and  the  portionless 
Alice  Lee.  Whether  he  had  any  suspicion  of  our 
love,  I  knew  not,  but  he  ordered  my  instant  return 
to  his  castle,  with  a  determination  to  send  me  imme 
diately  to  the  continent.  We  had  one  more  night 
before  we  parted — our  last  interview  on  earth.  None 
but  those  who  have  loved  madly  can  tell  the  agony 
of  that  meeting  and  that  parting.  I  obtained  from 
Alice  the  promise  of  an  immediate  private  marriage, 
which  was  at  once  accomplished  by  the  aid  of  a  priest 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  without  the  regular 
license,  without  witnesses  or  certificate.  We  did  not 
separate  until  the  carriage  which  my  father  had  sent 
for  me  came  to  the  door. 

"  There  was  no  deliberate,  guilty  seduction,  as 
that  bad  man  would  intimate.  Alice  was  trusting  as 
a  child,  and  believed  that  a  legal  marriage  had  taken 
place ;  and  such  was  my  belief,  until  I  subsequently 
ascertained  that  the  marriage,  in  the  eye  of  the  law, 
was  null,  on  the  ground  of  the  absence  of  witnesses, 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  173 

the  want  of  a  license,  and  of  the  consent  of  friends, 
we  both  being  under  age.  I  did  not  know,  until  after 
wards,  that  even  the  priest  who  married  us  had  been 
suspended  by  the  Bishop  for  irregularities,  and  had  no 
power  of  performing  the  marriage  ceremony.  That 
man  has  asserted  before  now  that  I  knew  he  was 
under  suspension.  As  true  as  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  brethren,  I  knew  it  not ;  and,  under  the  ig 
norance  and  impulsiveness  of  reckless  youth,  I  did 
not  stop  to  inquire  how  much  or  how  little  earthly 
form  was  necessary  to  legalize  a  marriage.  I  only 
knew  that  we  had  taken  each  other  as  husband  and 
wife  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  supposed  we  had  com 
plied  with  the  laws  of  man.  The  wrong  which  I  did 
was  not  what  the  malice  of  my  enemy  asserts,  but  it 
consisted  in  connecting  my  destinies  with  hers,  when 
I  had  no  control  over  them  myself. 

I  went  abroad,  and  staid  there  years,  until  the 
death  of  my  father.  On  my  return,  I  made  every 
inquiry  for  Alice  Lee,  intending,  at  once,  to  repair 
the  involuntary  wrong  I  had  done  her.  I  could  dis 
cover  nothing  of  her.  The  friends,  with  whom  she 
had  been  staying  when  I  knew  her,  had  died  or  were 
gone — none  knew  whither.  During  this  search  it  was 
that  I  became  acquainted  with  Richard  Seymour, 
who  declared  to  me  that  Alice  Lee  had  been  dead 


174      THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

several  years.  I  grieved  over  this  result  of  my 
youthful  and  reckless  passion,  but  soon  found  com 
fort  in  the  society  of  Anne  Stanley,  and  in  the  grow 
ing  love  of  liberty  and  hatred  of  oppression.  My 
history,  since  I  came  to  this  land,  to  enjoy  this  liber 
ty,  you  all  know." 

As  his  father  finished,  Edward  raised  his  head 
from  his  arms,  where  it  had  been  placed  at  the  very 
commencement  of  this  scene,  and  looked  with  swim 
ming  eyes  towards  his  parent,  as  if  confidence  in  his 
integrity  had  not  been  shaken. 

Capt.  Seymour  sat,  discomfited  and  uneasy,  look 
ing  furtively  at  Jane,  but  never  casting  his  eyes  to 
wards  his  opponent,  whose  sincere  tone  and  manly 
confession  brought  conviction  even  to  his  heart.  He 
had  shot  his  shaft,  and  the  arrow  had  fallen  harmless 
from  the  breast  of  him  against  whom  it  was  aimed  ; 
but,  alas,  how  deeply  had  it  wounded  three  young 
hearts,  one  of  which  was  the  only  being  he  really 
loved ! 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  effect  which 
Capt.  Seymour's  communication  had  upon  some  of 
those  most  interested  in  it.  At  his  commencing  de 
nunciation,  Jane  looked  up  in  broad  amazement,  fear 
ing  lest  the  exciting  scenes  of  the  last  night  had  so 
acted  upon  the  irritable  mind  of  her  uncle,  as  to  have 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  175 

deranged  his  faculties.  As  the  truth  dawned  on  her 
mind,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  but  lis 
tened  still  intensely  to  the  conversation. 

When  such  a  sudden,  unlooked-for,  unexpected 
event  occurs  to  us,  where  there  is  nothing  on  our  part 
but  a  passive  attention  to  it,  the  first  effect  is  stun 
ning.  It  does  not  produce  tears  or  fainting,  or  even 
much  external  manifestation-  of  sensibility  or  excite 
ment.  It  is  as  if  the  senses  of  the  soul  had  been 
numbed  by  the  blow.  Such  were  Jane's  feelings,  as 
she  thought  of  herself.  She  was  roused  from  this 
partial  stupor,  and  obliged  to  uncover  her  face,  on 
hearing  the  stifled  gasp  which  Henry  gave,  who  stood 
by  her  side  as  the  communication  was  made.  He 
fell,  like  one  shot  down,  at  her  feet,  and  seemed  be 
reft  of  sensation.  He  struggled  for  breath,  but 
waived  off  all  assistance  that  others  attempted  to 
bring. 

"  Henry,"  said  the  maiden,  very  low,  "  compose 
yourself.  I  rejoice  that  you  are  my  brother.  I  can 
now  bestow  on  you  the  affection  and  friendship  of  a 
sister,  which  your  former  feelings  have  prevented  me 
from  exhibiting." 

Foolish  maiden !  to  suppose  that  when  the  very 
heart-strings  were  cracking,  that  the  offer  of  your 
calm  friendship  could  be  any  solace.  The  insatiate 


176       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES 


demands  of   Love  can   never  be  fed  by  the    '  cold 
baked  meats '  of  a  sisterly  friendship  ! 

For  once,  the  impetuosity  of  his  temper,  and  the 
pride  of  his  character,  were  of  service  to  him.  The 
blood  went  back  to  his  heart — oh,  how  much  colder 
than  when  it  rushed  forth  !  He  arose  and  left  the 
court-room  to  seek  in  solitude  the  indulgence  of  the 
feelings  that  gushed  in  lava  floods  of  hot,  boiling, 
seething  passions  over  his  soul. 

"  Would  that  I  could  have  calmed  him  by  a  sis 
ter's  love,"  thought  Jane,  but  at  the  thought  there 
came  the  suffocating  gush  of  reflection  :  "  Edward, 
too,  is  my  brother.  Can  I  feel  towards  him  a  sis 
ter's  love  ?  " 

The  icy  hand  of  despair  was  laid  on  her  heart 
likewise — the  hum  of  the  voices  in  the  court-room 
sounded  more  and  more  confused — the  objects  swam 
before  her  eyes,  and  soon,  in  senseless  forgetfulness, 
she  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  present,  nor  did  she 
awake  to  that  knowledge  again  until  she  found  her 
self  upon  her  own  bed,  with  the  anxious  faces  of  the 
attendants  around  her.  At  first,  she  gazed  around 
in  astonishment.  "  Where  am  I  ?  What  have  I 
done  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 

Slowly  the  tide  of  recollection  rolled  back  its  bit- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  177 

ter  waves  over  her  mind,  and  she  turned  upon  her 
pillow  and  wept. 

Edward  started  convulsively,  as  Jane*  fainted  and 
was  borne  from  the  court-room.  He  seized  his  hat  to 
accompany  her,  but  checked,  in  an  instant,  all  exter 
nal  indications  of  emotion,  and  was  proceeding  calm 
ly,  though  with  a  pale  countenance,  to  her  assistance, 
when  Capt.  Seymour  rudely  seized  him  by  the  arm  : 
"  No,  no,  young  Puritan,  you  do  not  go  near  her.  I 
claim  a  right  over  that  girl,  obtained  by  the  support 
of  her  infancy  and  childhood.  Your  own  canting 
laws  give  me  that  power,  and  no  son  of  Thomas  Dud 
ley  shall  ever  make  love  to  his  own  sister.  Back 
with  you." 

Edward  glanced  at  his  father,  and  saw  the  same 
feeling  in  his  eye,  and  quietly  returned  to  his  seat 
and  his  duties.  What  he  felt,  no  one  knew.  It  was 
sufficient  always  for  him  to  know  what  he  felt  him 
self.  He  never  displayed  his  emotions,  and  always 
despised  himself  when  accident  or  sudden  excitement 
had  drawn  them  forth.  "  People  may  call  me  cold," 
he  often  said  to  his  mother,  "  I  know  what  hidden 
fire  there  is  in  my  own  heart.  It  is  enough  to  light 
my  path  of  life, — what  need  for  others  to  know  its 
strength  or  its  weakness." 


178       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"  God  may  forgive,  but  cannot  blot  them  out. 
Systems  begin  and  end.    Eternity 
Eolls  on  his  endless  years,  and  men,  absolved, 
By  mercy,  from  the  consequence,  forget 
The  evil  deed,  and  God  imputes  it  not; 
But  neither  systems,  ending  nor  begun, 
Eternity  that  rolls  his  endless  years, 
Nor  men  absolved,  and  sanctified,  and  wash'd 
By  mercy  from  the  consequence,  nor  yet 
Forgetfulness,  nor  God  imputing  not, 
Can  wash  the  guilty  deed,  once  done,  from  out 
The  faithful  annals  of  the  past." 


Pollok. 


WHEN  Col.  Dudley  returned  to  his  house  that  noon, 
he  walked  with  a  sadder  step.  The  blow  he  had 
been  long  anticipating  had  fallen,  and  had  scathed 
others  with  its  withering  stroke.  His  wife  was  alone. 
She  saw  the  unwonted  trouble  on  his  brow,  and  was 
alarmed. 


179 

"  Husband,  what  ailetli  thee  1 " 

"  Anne,  the  bolt,  long  threatened,  has  been  shot. 
Seymour  has  made  his  denunciation." 

"  Dear  husband,"  said  the  loving  wife,  folding  her 
arms  around  him,  "  you  must  have  had  a  day  of  se 
vere  trials.  But,"  added  she,  looking  up  lovingly 
into  his  stern,  sad  face,  "  you  have  held  fast  to  your 
integrity  ?" 

"  Yes,  Anne,  God  supported  me ;  and  I  related 
every  event  as  it  occurred.  How  have  I  appreciated 
this  day  the  judgment  and  the  kindness  of  your  ad 
vice,  sweet  wife,  to  relate  to  the  church  .or  its  officers 
when  I  united  with  it  these  sad  events  of  my  early 
life  ;  I  then  thought  the  church  had  no  business  with 
the  past,  on  the  profession  of  repentance.  How  sound 
was  your  advice,  then,  dear  Anne  ;  to-day,  I  have 
reaped  its  benefit." 

"  Rather  say,  dear  husband,  that  you  owe  it  to 
the  dictates  of  your  own  integrity  in  informing  me  of 
all  the  facts,  even  before  I  had  decided  to  love  you, 
in  order  that  the  knowledge  of  the  past  might  not 
afterwards  put  me  to  shame.  It  was  that  very  in 
tegrity  of  heart  that  made  me  cleave  to  you  for  time 
and  eternity ;  would  that  I  could  put  that  aching 
head  upon  my  bosom,  and  lull  you  to  sleep  and  for- 
getfulness." 


180 

Edward  then  entered  for  dinner;  and  the  wife 
sank  back  to  her  submissive  look,  and  the  husband 
banished  from  his  countenance  the  tenderness  and  the 
confidence  of  love ;  and  was  once  more  the  stern, 
cold,  sad  Puritan, — rendered  still  more  wintry  by  the 
events  of  the  morning. 

The  afternoon  of  that  day  was  the  weekly  lecture, 
which  all  felt  under  as  much  obligation  to  attend  as 
to  be  present  at  the  exercises  of  the  Sabbath.  Here 
was  Mr.  Hooker's  peculiar  province.  The  Sabbath 
he  devoted  exclusively  to  spiritual  instruction.  But 
he  made  his  week-day  lecture  the  opportunity  of  re 
proving  his  people  for  faults  or  follies  other  than 
those  connected  with  religious  discipline.  It  was 
here  that  he  attacked  any  political  principles  broached 
in  the  Council,  where  he  could  not  enter  his  protest 
He  was  a  sound  Republican,  and  a  sturdy  Independ 
ent  in  religion ,  but,  at  times,  a  little  too  much  dis 
posed  to  dictate  on  both  temporal  and  spiritual  mat 
ters.  These  lectures  were  always  interesting  from 
their  containing  allusions  to  the  current  events  of  the 
day. 

Mr.  Hooker,  in  his  prayer,  alluded  to  the  events 
of  the  night.  He  prayed  for  Barnard  by  name,  that 
the  loss  of  his  barn  might  be  sanctified  to  his  use,  in 
preserving  him  from  too  great  an  attachment  to  thi? 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO,  181 

world's  goods, — a  fault  that  poor  Barnard  was  too 
prone  to  indulge  in  ;  and  that  it  might  be  blessed  to 
the  whole  public,  by  rousing  up  their  charities  and 
sympathies,  until  they  all  joined  to  erect  a  new  barn 
for  the  sufferer.  He  alluded  to  the  alarms  produced 
by  the  Indian  attacks,  and  prayed  that  the  whole 
congregation  might  realize  how  Satan,  in  spiritual 
matters,  was  roaming  round  their  souls  in  the  same 
dark  way  for  their  injury. 

The  text  of  his  sermon  was  from  Numbers  xxxii. 
23,  "  Be  sure  your  sin  will  find  you  out."  The  doc 
trine  that  he  deduced  from  it  was  the  certainty  of  the 
Divine  punishment  for  sin.  He  argued,  "  that  pun 
ishment  under  the  administration  of  God  was  two 
fold  :  the  satisfaction  of  justice,  as  it  may  be  called, 
— that  is,  the  rendering  of  so  much  pain  for  so  much 
guilt ;  and,  secondly,  the  naturally  constituted  conse 
quences  of  the  act  itself.  Of  the  first  kind  of  pun 
ishment,  we  may  say,  that  God  has  determined  that 
repentance  and  faith  in  the  Saviour  can  release  man 
kind  from  it.  Of  the  second,  that  God  has  deter 
mined  that  nothing  shall  exempt  the  sinner  from  its 
effects." 

The  application  was  evident  to  all.  Indeed, 
though  he  mentioned  no  names,  he  spoke  often  of 
"  our  beloved  brother,"  and  of  the  trials  he  now  en- 


182       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES  J 

durea  as  the  consequential  punishment  for  his  sin. 
"  Be  careful  then,  young  men,"  he  continued,  "  how 
you  allow  unbridled  passions  to  obtain  dominion  over 
your  souls.  They  govern  with  a  tyrant's  grasp ;  they 
leave  a  scar  which  all  the  blood  of  a  Saviour  cannot 
obliterate.  God  may  pardon  sin  through  Jesus 
Christ,  but  he  never  erases  the  record,  '  Sedet,  eter- 
numque  sedebit.'  On  the  great  ledger  of  heaven  it 
stands  for  ever  in  its  flaming  characters.  There  may 
be,  it  is  true,  a  balance  struck  on  the  opposite  page 
written  in  the  blood  of  Christ,  but  the  sin,  once  com 
mitted,  retains  its  hue  for  ever.  Tears  cannot  blot 
out  or  wash  away  the  records  of  Heaven.  Penitence 
cannot  erase  from  the  great  system  of  God's  govern 
ment  the  consequences  of  the  one  wrong  act.  Re 
pentance  and  faith  in  Jesus  Christ,  though  they  may 
remit  the  penalty  of  the  broken  law,  cannot  alter  the 
motion  of  a  single  wheel  in  the  mighty  chariot  of 
God's  Providence,  as  it  rolls  its  endless  cycle  through 
the  universe.  The  consequences  of  guilt  are  as  irre 
versible  as  the  decrees  of  God ;  they  stand  as  un 
shaken  as  the  foundations  of  the  battlements  of  Hea 
ven  5  they  will  last  until  eternity  sighs  out  its  dura 
tion.  Give  heed,  then,  young  men,  to  the  warning 
voice,  and  walk  the  safe,  straight  path  of  integrity 
and  holiness.  Give  heed,  then,  young  women,  and 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  183 

avoid  the  least  breath  which  pollution  may  breathe 
upon  your  purity ;  when  lost,  it  can  never  be  re 
gained.  It  glitters  in  the  early  spring-time  of  life 
like  the  morning  dew  in  the  tender  flowers,  and,  like 
that,  too  soon  to  vanish  from  the  heart  for  ever.  If, 
dew-like,  it  is  exhaled  by  the  heat  of  passion,  or 
evaporated  by  this  world's  sun,  it  never  recondenses 
on  the  heart.  Virtue  may  follow  vice, — the  heart 
may  be  brought  back  to  honesty  and  truth, — principle 
and  religion  may  resume  their  reign, — but  purity 
once  lost  is  never  recovered.  The  tear  of  repentance 
may  wash  and  soften  the  stony  heart,  but  it  brings  not 
again  that  early  perfume  which  innocence  and  delicacy 
spread  over  the  soul. 

"  Of  the  wrong  done  by  this  early  submission  to 
the  recklessness  of  the  passion  of  the  moment,  our 
brother  repented  long  since ;  and  if  a  life  of  rigid 
self-denial,  of  eminent  holiness,  of  a  constant  and 
ardent  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Christ,  is  any  evi 
dence,  then  we  may  feel  that  he  has  been  pardoned 
for  the  sins  of  his  youth ;  but  their  consequences, 
under  the  punitive  justice  of  God,  are  not  obliterated. 
Here  they  stand  out  in  all  their  horrible  freshness ; 
here,  even  in  this  distant  country,  and  at  this  distant 
period,  as  if  it  were  the  very  sunset  of  the  day  on 
which  they  were  enacted, — blasting  the  affections  of 


184 

the  young  like  the  simoom  of  the  desert, — mildewing 
the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  aged  like  a  pestilential 
vapor.  Be  warned  then,  my  hearers,  against  the  in 
dulgence  of  wrong,  for  be  sure  that  your  sin  will  find 
you  out." 

Henry  had  not  been  seen  all  day.  For  his  ab 
sence  his  father  made  no  inquiries,  and  uttered  no 
reproaches.  Late  in  the  evening  he  came  home,  hag 
gard,  worn  out,  with  the  settled  paleness  of  deep  de 
spair  painted  on  every  feature.  He  went  at  once  to 
the  room  which  he  and  his  brother  occupied,  and 
found  Edward  sitting  up  for  him,  appearing  nearly  as 
much  distressed  as  he. 

"  Do  not  say  a  word  to  me,  Edward  ;  do  not  at 
tempt  to  comfort  me.  There  is  no  word  that  can 
alleviate  the  pain  of  this  blow;  no  consolation  that 
can  assuage  its  agony, — for,  Edward,  Edward,  there 
is  no  hope  !  If  she  were  false,  or  even  married  to 
another,  there  would  still  be  some  lingering  ray  of 
future  hope  left  in  the  mind ;  but  there  can  be  none 
here.  It  is  madness  even  to  think  of  it.  Oh,  how  I 
have  cursed  my  existence  this  day  ! — cursed  her,  and 
my  father,  and  every  one." 

"  May  God  forgive  you,  my  suffering  child,"  said 
his  mother,  who  had  silently  entered  the  room ;  "  and 
may  he  give  you  strength  to  sustain  this  fearful  fate. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  185 

"We  have  warned  you  of  this,  as  soon  as  it  was  known 
to  us.  We  hoped  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  say 
more.  Be  calm,  my  dear  boy,  and  submit  to  this 
chastisement." 

She  lavished  upon  him  those  caresses  which  she 
thought  necessary  to  wean  him  from  his  suffering, 
and  to  show  him  there  was  still  affection  in  the  world 
left  for  him,  little  thinking  in  her  partiality  that  there 
was  another  present  on  whom  such  caresses  had  never 
been  lavished,  and  who  would  have  given  worlds  for 
these  very  manifestations  of  a  mother's  love,  which 
Henry,  in  his  despair,  rather  pushed  from  him. 

"  Was  he  not  suffering  too  ?"  he  thought ;  "  did 
I  not  love  her  likewise  with  as  strong  a  flame  ?  But 
she  knows  it  not,  and,  thank  G-od,  no  one  does.  I 
would  not  have  been  my  brother's  rival,  even  if  my 
love  ate  out  my  very  heart." 

"  Good  night,  beloved  Henry.  Good  night,  son 
Edward  ;  comfort  your  brother.  Your  calm,  equable 
mind,  can  be  of  some  service  to  him  now." 

Did  either  of  those  brothers  sleep  that  night  ? 

"  Where  have  you  been  to-day,  Corporal  Bull  ? " 
"On  duty,  up    to    Centinel  Hill.      I  meant  to 
have  gone  with  you  to  the  court-room,  as  I  told  you 
I  would  last  night,  when  we  were  up  at  John   Bar- 


186       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES: 


nard's  fire ;  but  I  was  sent  on  guard  to  watch  for 
those  plaguy  Indians,  as  if  they  would  think  of  com 
ing  in  the  day-time.  But,  neighbor  Steele,  did  you 
go  up,  and  what  was  done  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  magistrates,  as  usual,  inquired  into  the 
fire,  and  the  other  attacks ;  and  I  suppose  came  to 
the  wise  conclusion,  by  an  unanimous  vote,  that  In 
dians  were  around.  Jim  Cook  shot  one  up  to  old 
Captain  Seymour's,  that  had  wounded  Miss  Jane 
with  an  arrow,  and  tried  to  set  fire  to  the  barns.  His 
body  was  brought  down,  and  a  jury  sot  on't.  He  was 
that  smoky-looking  youth  of  the  Mohawks  who  ran 
away  from  jail." 

"  Well,  I  guess  they  settled  that  verdict  pretty 
quick.  There  ain't  much  crying  over  a  dead  Indian 
now-a-days." 

"  You  may  say  that.  But  the  strangest  thing  to 
come  is,  that  old  Captain  Seymour,  who  was  towering 
mad,  because  the  magistrates  did  not  choose  to  send 
him  some  musketeers  last  night,  proved  there,  in 
court,  that  his  niece,  Jane  Seymour,  was  Colonel 
Dudley's  daughter ;  and  the  Colonel  owns  it :  and 
Jane  fainted,  and  Hal  Dudley  had  a  fit ;  and  old 
Colonel  Dudley  looked  as  if  he  could  have  eaten  up 
the  Captain  for  telling  the  truth ;  and  your  favorite 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  187 

Edward  sat  as  calm  and  as  cold  as  if  lie  were  glad  of 
the  whole." 

"  You  shan't  abuse  Eddy,  for  he  is  a  good  lad, 
and  will  be  an  honor  to  us.  What  a  strange  affair ! 
— but  I  can't  stay  any  longer.  There  are  the  cows 
to  milk,  and  the  pigs  to  feed,  and  lots  of  other 
chores;  so,  good  night." 


188       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  I  wore  Bill  Martin's  wig, 

When  I  train'd,  when  I  train'd : 
I  wore  Bill  Martin's  wig, 
"When  I  train'd. 
I  wore  Bill  Martin's  wig; 
'Twas  fixed  up  very  trig ; 
And  I  felt  darnation  big, 
When  I  train'd." 

Old  Song. 

EARLY  on  the  next  morning  a  summons  for  the 
Magistrates  and  Council  was  early  sent  around  the 
settlement.  Rumors  began  to  prevail  that  important 
measures  were  to  be  taken.  It  was  soon  certainly 
known  that  a  courier  had  arrived  from  Massachusetts, 
giving  intelligence  that  a  new  Indian  war  had  com 
menced  within  their  domains  ;  and  requesting  that 
their  brethren  of  Connecticut  would  send  as  soon  as 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO,  189 

possible  a  detachment  of  soldiers  as  a  reinforcement 
to  the  Springfield  and  Hadley  settlements,  that  were 
threatened  with  an  attack. 

It  was  resolved,  that,  as  the  request  was  urgent, 
fifty  men  should  be  dispatched  that  day,  and  that    • 
Capt.    John   Mason   should   prepare   the   remaining 
train-bands  to  follow  at  another  day. 

An  increase  of  the  military  force  occasioned 
some  promotions.  Sergeant  Wadsworth  was  made  a 
Lieutenant,  and  had  the  command  of  the  detachment 
given  to  him.  Edward  Dudley  solicited,  through 
Mr.  Culick,  the  appointment  of  Ensign,  and  obtained 
it.  Corporals  Webster  and  Bull  were  both  made 
Sergeants,  and  with  two  Corporals  were  sent  in  the 
detached  party. 

The  day  was  a  busy  one,  and  by  noon  the  little 
band  was  ferried  across  the  river,  and  set  out  upon 
their  errand. 

About  half  of  the  men  were  armed  with  match 
locks,  the  remainder  with  pikes ;  each  man  was  fur 
nished  with  a  cutlass,  pistols,  and  a  knife  in  his  belt. 
Their  dress  was  of  woollen, — the  home-made,  sad- 
colored  cloth  of  the  period, — made  double,  and  quilted 
with  cotton,  so  that  an  Indian  arrow  could  hardly 
penetrate  it.  They  carried  no  extra  clothing,  except 
a  pair  of  stockings ;  though  the  careful  wives  of 


190 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE    FACES; 


some   had    provided    them   with   thread    and    nee 
dles   against  contingencies.      In  his   knapsack   each 
carried  provisions,— Indian  bread,  boiled  pork,  and 
cheese,  with  a  metallic  cup.     Some  of  the  younger 
pikemen  were  provided  with  fowling^pieces,  in  case  a 
supply  of  game  should  be  needed.      Each  had  two 
blankets  rolled  up  on  the  top  of  his  knapsack,  but 
no  arrangements  for  tents  or   an  encampment  had 
been  made,  for  the  party  expected  to  reach  the  settle 
ment  of  Springfield,  where  the  danger  was,  the  next 
day ;  and  one  night's  bivouac  did  not  distress  them 
in  anticipation.     The  steeple  hat,  with  no  feather  or 
ornament,  and  the  boot  hose  tied  up  over  the  knee, 
completed  their  equipment ;    and  they  presented  an 
array  of  stern,  solemn  men,  with  firm  mien  and  un 
daunted  front,  entering  upon  what   might  prove  a 
dangerous  enterprise  ;  but  a  danger  to  be  met  firmly, 
solemnly,   seriously, — with  no    lightness   of  affected 
courage  or  of  wanton  bravado,  but  with  that  depend 
ence  on  the  care  of  Jehovah  that  had  accompanied 
them  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  their  eventful 
lives. 

Lieutenant  Wadsworth  and  Ensign  Dudley  were 

not  dressed  differently  from  the  rest,  except  in  the 

superior  excellency  of  the  same  fashioned  equipments. 

They  kept,  in  their  route,  as  near  the  river  as  they 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  191 

could,  as  their  best  guide  ;  but  were  obliged  to  make 
considerable  detours  into  the  country  to  avoid  the 
low  grounds  on  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  the 
various  streams  and  rivulets  that  entered  it.  Ser 
geant  Webster  was  placed  in  the  van  to  select  the 
best  path  through  the  woods,  his  hunting  experience 
having  often  taken  him  up  to  the  Podunk  country. 
The  soldiers  marched  compactly,  with  no  particular 
order,  but  none  were  suffered  to  lag  by  Wadsworth, 
who  brought  up  the  rear.  No  attention  was  paid  to 
circumspection  as  to  their  trail.  They  had  no  ene 
mies  in  the  rear  to  fear,  and  were  too  formidable  a 
body  for  the  Po dunks  to  attack. 

After  crossing  the  Podunk,  their  course  was  again 
towards  the  river  ;  and  they  kept  along  on  the  top  of 
the  eminence,  next  west  of  the  present  East  Hart 
ford  and  East  Windsor  road,  until  they  reached  the 
Scantic.  Here  they  were  obliged  to  make  another 
detour  into  the  interior,  over  the  brooks  and  branches 
of  the  Scantic,  well  known  in  modern  times  by  the 
trout  fisherman.  About  half  an  hour  before  sun 
down,  they  reached  the  banks  of  that  branch  which  is 
now  termed  Broad  Brook,  some  sixteen  miles  from 
the  settlement  at  Hartford.  Here  Lieutenant  Wads- 
worth  ordered  a  halt,  and  sent  Sergeants  Webster 
and  Bull  to  select  a  place  for  a  night  encampment. 


192       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES j 

They  returned  soon,  and  conducted  the  company  to 
the  spot  which  they  had  selected.  Ah  !  well  we 
know  that  spot ;  many  a  nice  trout  have  we  taken 
from  yonder  deep,  dark  pool,  near  the  foot  of  that 
yellow  birch.  A  slight  hill,  covered  with  a  copse  of 
oak-trees,  arose  near  the  bank  of  the  brook,  but  left 
a  pebbly  margin  of  a  few  feet,  over  which  the  stream 
dashed  furiously  in  its  freshets, — now  it  murmured 
along  sullenly  at  their  base.  The  underbrush  had 
principally  died  away  under  the  shade  of  the  old  oak, 
and  a  few  minutes'  work  with  the  cutlasses  cleared 
the  rest.  Preparations  were  made  for  cooking  their 
game  on  the  pebbly  bank  of  the  b  ook,  by  Webster's 
advice,  that  the  current  of  air  which  the  brook  cre 
ated  by  the  motion  of  its  waters  should  carry  the 
smoke  with  it  down  stream,  and  not  unnecessarily 
betray  their  encampment.  . 

On  their  arrival,  the  roll  was  called  over,  and 
David  Rice,  one  of  the  privates,  marked  as  missing. 
Upon  inquiry  being  made,  Corporal  Goodwin  said 
that  Rice  told  him  in  the  morning  that  he  could 
not  start  as  early  as  the  rest,  but  would  follow  their 
trail,  and  reach  them  before  night ;  "  Rice  is  a  queer 
fellow ;  he  never  is  ready  for  any  duty,  but  he  is  a 
good  woodsman,  and  can  reach  us  if  any  one  can." 

A  sentinel  was  placed   on   the   beach  under  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  193 

shadow  of  the  rocks,  and  two  more  near  each  extreme 
of  the  encampment. 

Before  eating,  Lieutenant  Wadsworth  called  the 
men  together,  and  after  reading  by  torch-light  a  short 
passage  from  a  small  Bible  he  carried  with  him,  he 
prayed  for  a  blessing  upon  their  food,  for  protec 
tion  during  the  night,  and  for  assistance  in  the  du 
ties  and  under  the  trials  of  the  next  day.  He  then 
exhorted  the  men  to  place  their  confidence  in  God, 
to  repent  of  all  their  short-comings  during  the  day, 
and,  after  their  repast,  to  seek  sleep  as  soon  as  pos 
sible  j  giving  them  notice  that  their  march  would  be 
resumed  as  soon  as  day  broke.  He  then  assigned  to 
Corporal  Goodwin  the  care  of  relieving  the  guard, 
and  to  Sergeant  Bull,  the  Quartermaster's  depart 
ment,  of  arranging  the  conveniences  far  food,  both 
for  supper  and  an  early  breakfast ;  and  for  the  ac 
commodation  of  the  men  during  the  night. 

Supper  was  nearly  finished,  when  the  loud  voice 
of  the  westernmost  sentinel  was  heard  to  call,  "  Who 
goes  there  ? — who  goes  there  ?  Answer  quick,  or  I 
shall  fire."  At  the  same  time,  they  heard  him  fix  his 
rest  in  the  ground. 

The  soldiers  all  started  to  their  feet,  but  they 
soon  heard  the  voice  of  Rice,  crying  out,  "  You  need 
not  shoot,  Steele ;  it's  only  I,  David  Rice." 
9 


194       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

Rice  then  approached  the  encampment,  accompa 
nied  by  Henry  Dudley,  who  was  followed  by  his 
faithful  hound. 

"  Lieutenant  Wadsworth,"  said  Rice,  "  I  got  here 
just  as  quick  as  I  could.  I  had  some  corn  to  pick 
this  morning,  and  the  old  woman  had  not  mended 
my  coat ;  but  here  I  am,  and  have  brought  you  a 
volunteer  beside." 

"  Lieutenant  Wadsworth,"  said  Henry  Dudley, 
rather  haughtily,  "  I  choose  to  accompany  this  ex 
pedition.  I  have  learnt  from  one  of  our  townsmen, 
that  Samoset  has  probably  joined  this  new  Massachu 
setts  outbreak ;  and  I  wish  to  settle  accounts  with 
that  rascal." 

"We  receive  you  as  a  volunteer,"  said  Wads- 
worth  ;  "  but  expect  you  to  submit  to  the  necessary 
discipline  of  military  authority.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  joined  us,  for  I  have  already  had  some  experience 
of  your  disobedience  to  authority.  But  we  cannot 
send  you  back  now.  But  as  for  that  dog,  he  cannot 
remain  with  a  party  and  a  trail  like  this ;  he  will 
betray  our  approach  at  once  by  his  barking.  He 
must  be  killed." 

"  Let  me  see  the  man  who  dare  kill  my  dog,"  said 
Henry,  flaring  up  at  once ;  "  he  will  have  to  take  a 
blow  from  my  cutlass." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


195 


"  I  rather  think,"  said  Wadsworth,  coolly,  "  you 
will  find  out  who  is  master  here  before  we  part." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  altercation,"  said  Edward, 
"  the  dog  is  a  faithful  and  obedient  one.  He  may  be 
of  use  to  us  in  the  trail.  At  any  rate,  Lieutenant,  I 
will  be  accountable  for  its  behaviour,  and  will  confine 
it  if  it  proves  troublesome." 

"  The  dog,"  cried  out  Rice,  "  is  a  perfect  Chris* 
tian.  Once  or  twice  to-day,  when  we  were  at  fault 
on  the  trail,  the  dog  set  us  right,  and  seemed  soon  to 
understand  what  we  needed,  and  kept  ahead  of  us 
directly  in  the  right  course." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  irreverently,  and  like  a 
blustering  cavalier,  David  Rice,"  said  Wadsworth; 
"  it  is  not  seemly  for  a  godly  man  to  use  such  lan 
guage." 

"  Edward,"  said  Henry,  sullenly,  "  have  you  any 
supper  for  me  ?  Here  are  some  partridges  and  a 
rabbit." 

"  I'll  attend  to  the  supper,"  said  Rice,  "  my  old 
woman  says  I'm  a  capital  cook." 

They  descended  to  the  level  of  the  brook,  the  dog 
quietly  following  them  ;  and  David  Rice  soon  put  his 
roasting  and  broiling  propensities  to  the  test,  in  pre 
paring  a  good  supper  for  himself,  Henry  Dudley,  and 
the  "  Christian"  dog,  who  had  his  share. 


196 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

"  Oh,  the  doleful,  dismal  suz ! 
Oh,  the  doleful,  desperate  suz ! ! 
Oh,  the  doleful,  dreadful  suz ! ! ! 
The  Indians  lay  behind  the  fence, 
And  shot  him  down,  stone  dead ! ! ! ! 

Old  Song. 

WHEN  Henry  sought  the  resting-place  of  his  brother, 
the  latter  found  that  he  had  left  home  wholly  unpre 
pared  for  the  expedition.  He  had  a  fowling-piece 
and  a  knife  of  course,  but  nothing  else  except  a  cut 
lass.  Edward  gave  him  up  one  of  his  blankets  and  a 
knapsack  for  his  pillow,  resting  his  head  himself,  as 
he  slept,  against  a  huge  oak. 

"When  they  had  lain  down,  Edward  said,  "We 
had  looked  for  you  for  some  time  this  morning,  when 
the  news  of  the  requisition  from  Massachusetts  ar- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  197 

rived,  but  you  was  not  to  be  found.  Our  mother 
said  she  was  glad  of  it,  for  she  could  not  permit  you 
to  go." 

"  It  was  afternoon  when  I  returned ;  I  cannot 
stay  at  home  and  see  every  thing  that  reminds  me  of 
Jane  Seymour.  Jane  Seymour  !  rather  Jane  Dudley 
— that  maddens  me.  I  have  been  wandering  around 
to-day  in  some  hopes  of  tracing  out  the  course  of 
Samoset.  I  have  no  other  one  on  whom  I  can  re 
venge  my  losses.  I  urged  father  and  mother  to  per 
mit  me  to  join  the  expedition  as  a  volunteer.  Father 
at  length  gave  his  consent  for  me  to  wait  and  march 
with  Captain  Mason,  but  I  could  not  assent  to  this. 
Mother,  for  once,  was  firm,  and  absolutely  prohibited 
my  going.  I  left  the  house  in  a  rage,  determined  to 
follow,  if  I  stole  a  boat  to  cross  the  river  with.  Poor 
Bevis,  here,  had  been  with  me  all  the  day,  and  I 
could  not  drive  him  back, — and  shall  not,  let  yonder 
old  bigot  say  what  he  will.  As  I  was  looking  along 
the  bank  for  a  boat,  I  saw  Dave  Rice  just  entering 
one, — sleepy  David,  as  the  boys  call  him  ;  I  found 
him  all  prepared  for  the  expedition.  He  said  he  had 
been  belated  by  the  corn,  and  then  he  had  to  run 
down  to  Nichols'  store  for  some  salt  and  pepper, — he 
could  not  go  without  them ;  and  altogether  he  was 
late.  I  soon  stopped  his  chattering,  and  he,  very 


198       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

willingly,  consented  to  have  me  go  with  him,  as  he 
had  only  a  pike,  and  I  had  a  fowling-piece;  and 
'  Look  here,'  said  he,  '  here  is  a  little  iron  kettle  in 
my  blankets ;  a  very  small  one,  that  will  answer  to 
make  a  stew  in  to-night.'  " 

Edward  permitted  him  to  run  on,  glad  that  his 
mind  could  find  a  diversion  in  any  thing. 

"  But,  brother,  I  am  sadly  grieved  that  you  should 
have  gone-  contrary  to  mother's  commands.  She  so 
seldom  lays  them  upon  you  that  I  should  think  you 
would  find  it  difficult  to  disobey." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason.  I  have  some 
times  thought  that  had  my  mother  commanded  me 
more,  I  should  have  been  less  reckless  and  head 
strong.  It  is  rather  too  late  for  her  to  begin  now, 
however;  and  so  I  started." 

"  Brother,  brother,  I  am  afraid  that  an  expedition 
commenced  in  disobedience  to  .a  mother's  commands 
will  have  but  an  unfortunate  termination." 

"  No  croaking,  Edward ;  no  utterance  of  evil 
omens.  But  why  should  I  care; — life  has  lost  its 
charm,  and  the  sooner  its  fevery  dream  is  over  in  the 
sound  sleep  of  death  the  better.  But  come,  let  us 
sleep  ;  I  am  tired." 

"  Oh,  brother,"  thought  Edward,  though  he  did 
not  speak  it,  "  think  of  the  waking  from  that  sound 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  199 

sleep  in  the  light  of  eternity,  with  its  realities  around 
your  soul.     May  God  pardon  you." 

The  tired  frames  of  the  brothers  soon  yielded  to 
sleep,  although  many  distressing  thoughts  pierced  the 
bosoms  of  both.  The  other  inmates  of  the  grove 
had  sunk  to  slumber  long  since,  and  the  beams  of 
the  young  moon  shone  on  the  sleeping  group,  the 
huge  oak  trees,  and  the  solemn  pace  of  the  vigilant 
sentinel ;  while  beneath  the  rock,  on  the  pebbly 
beach  of  the  murmuring  brook,  the  relief  guard,  under 
Corporal  Goodwin,  sat  around  the  embers  of  the 
decaying  fire,  occasionally  supplying  them  with  fuel, 
and  nodding  in  partial  sleep,  as  the  lulling  sound  of 
the  brook  over  its  pebbly  bottom  hushed  them  to 
rest.  The  night  was  still  and  clear.  A  faint  vapor 
rose  from  the  brook,  and  curled  up  the  side  of  the 
rocky  hill ;  the  screech-owl's  boding  scream  echoed 
from  her  nook  in  the  high  oak,  as  the  wind  gently 
rustled  its  seared  and  dying  leaves ;  the  insect  cre 
ation  of  summer  were  mostly  hushed  by  the  early 
frosts,  and  the  prowling  wolf  was  far  up  the  distant 
mountain.  As  the  slanting  light  of  the  setting  moon 
struck  upon  the  dark  pool  near  them,  the  hermit 
trout,  who  had  lain  there  quietly  during  the  day, 
dashed  at  the  bright  leaves  that  floated  on  its  sur- 


200       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

face,  or  grasped  the  struggling  cricket  that  had  un 
wittingly  leaped  to  destruction. 

The  march  was  resumed  early  in  the  morning, 
after  a  hearty  breakfast.  Lieutenant  Wadsworth  ad 
vised  the  men  that  circumstances  might  prevent  a 
meal  being  taken  before  night.  As  they  approached 
the  Massachusetts  line, ,  greater  precautions  were 
taken  against  surprise,  and  the  summits  of  those  hills 
chosen  where,  through  the  trees,  the  distant  river 
could  be  seen  as  the  only  guide  to  their  place  of  des 
tination.  Webster  and  Dudley  still  kept  in  the  van, 
while  Wadsworth  brought  up  the  rear.  Henry  trod 
rather  moodily  along.  No  conversation  was  al 
lowed  in  the  ranks,  and  the  want  of  excitement  in 
the  regular  monotony  of  the  progress  was  annoying 
to  one  of  his  temperament. 

Noon  found  them  within  the  bounds  of  Massachu 
setts,  and  very  near,  as  they  supposed,  the  objects  of 
their  march.  They  had  crossed  one  Indian  trail 
going  eastward,  but  did  not  pursue  it,  lest  it  should 
take  them  from  their  main  object,  that  of  giving  aid 
to  their  distressed  brethren.  At  noon,  they  seated 
themselves  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  sloping  to  the  north, 
at  the  foot  of  which  ran  a  cold  stream,  and  snatched 
a  hasty  repast  of  the  remains  of  their  ample  break 
fast.  As  they  were  seated,  Webster  was  seen  sud- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  201 

denly  to  rise,  and  go  to  the  very  brow  of  the  hill,  and 
stand  attentively,  holding  his  head  back  in  the  air. 

"  What  is  it,  Sergeant  ?"  said  Lieut.  Wadsworth; 
"  what  do  you  see  or  hear  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Webster,  returning  to  his  seat, 
"  nothing  ;  but  I  smell  the  smoke  of  a  distant  fire, 
and  it  is  not  the  smoke  of  leaves  or  of  fresh  cut 
wood." 

They  all  sprang  to  the  ledge,  and  snuffing  up  the 
air,  which,  being  rather  brisk  from  the  north,  brought 
the  smell  of  smoke  from  a  great  distance. 

"Do  you  smell  it,  Lieutenant?"  said  Webster. 
"  Very  plainly.  It  has  a  mixed  smell  of  various  de 
scriptions." 

"  It  is  the  smell  of  old  timber  and  seasoned  pine," 
said  Webster.  "  There  is  a  framed  dwelling  burning 
somewhere  at  the  north.  Ensign  Dudley,  you  are 
young ;  will  you  climb  yon  high  oak  that  hangs  over 
the  cliff,  and  look  in  the  direction  of  the  smoke'?" 

Edward  unbuckled  the  belt  of  his  cutlass,  and  left 
his  knapsack  and  his  weapons  at  the  foot  of  the  tree, 
with  his  tat.  He  was  young,  agile,  and  fearless. 
The  highest  branch  he  could  reach  and  preserve  his 
position  was  attained,  and  he  looked  out  on  the  sur 
rounding  country.  The  river  lay  at  his  left,  moving 
sleepily  amid  the  gay  autumn-colored  forests  that 
9* 


xiUAl  THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE   FACES  j 

surrounded  it,— its  waves  slightly  ruffled  by  the  north 
ern  wind.  No  farm-houses,  and  villages,  and  steeples, 
and  cultivated  fields,  were  seen  rising  in  the  distance, 
as  now,  from  that  same  high  cliff,  but  one  unbroken 
belt  of  heavy  trees  skirted  the  horizon,  rich  with  the 
dying  hues  of  the  vegetable  year.  Over  their  varie 
gated  tops,  at  a  point  on  the  north  verge  of  the  hori 
zon,  a  heavy  black  smoke  arose,  with  its  lower  edges 
tinged  with  flame.  Its  lurid  masses  surged  up  in 
succession  over  the  gay  woods,  like  death  amid  the 
brilliancy  of  a  ball-room.  He  hailed  them  below, 
and  pointed  out  its -direction. 

"  Come  down,  Ensign,"  shouted  the  Lieutenant ; 
"  we  must  hufy.     The  enemy  are  at  work." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  203 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

"Thou  know'st,"  he  sternly  said,  "  that  ne'er 

An  insult  I  forgive ; 

Nor  does  there  breathe  a  man  who  dares 
Provoke  my  rage  and  live. 

"  This  night  my  foeman  I  surpris'd, 

His  fresh  torn  scalp  I  bear ; 
His  blood,  the  signal  of  my  tribe, 
Upon  my  brow  I  wear. 

"  E'en  now,  around  his  smoking  home 

My  warriors  watch  the  fire ; 
That  home,  Ompoia,  once  was  thine ; 
That  foeman  was  thy  sire." 

Nootonuc  and  Ompoia. 

A  NEW  arrangement  was  now  made  in  the  march. 
The  scouts  were  called  in.  Wadsworth  himself  took 
the  lead  with  Webster,  and  Edward  was  sent  to 
bring  up  the  rear.  Their  ranks  were  now  condensed, 


£04       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  j 

and  they  stalked  through  the  wood  at  a  quicker  pace. 
Two  flankers  were  placed  at  about  twenty  rods  from 
the  front  rank ;  two  of  the  best  and  most  experienced 
men  of  tho  company.  Henry  sought  the  rear  with 
his  brother,  but  felt  the  excitement  and  enthusiasm 
of  the  moment  with  the  rest ;  and  even,  of  his  own 
accord,  attached  a  leash  to  his  dog's  neck,  and  held 
him  in  from  rambling. 

An  hour  was  spent  in  this  rapid  march,  the  in 
creasing  smoke  being  their  guide.  At  length,  they 
came  out  upon  a  clear  piece  of  land,  on  a  hill  but  a 
little  distance  from  the  river,  and  saw  the  object  of 
their  search.  They  had  come  too  late.  The  smok 
ing  remains  of  the  frame  and  the  roof  were  blazing  in 
the  cellar,  and  the  blackened  stone  chimney  stood  as 
a  solemn  beacon  of  what  the  savages  had  done.  They 
had  come  too  late ;  for  on  that  sandy  knoll  there  lay 
a  man  in  the  vigor  of  life,  two  grown-up  lads,  their 
mother,  and  three  young  girls,  in  the  cold  embrace 
of  death.  They  were  nearly  stripped  of  their  gar 
ments,  and  their  disfigured  heads  showed  that  it  was 
not  prisoners  but  scalps  that  their  merciless  enemies 
had  desired. 

The  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  man  and  the 
youths  was  calm,  though  solemn,  showing  that  then* 
death-wound  had  been  made  by  the  bullet  before 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  205 

their  scalps  were  taken.  But  the  distortion  and  pain 
expressed  in  the  countenances  of  the  females  indi 
cated  that  they  had  been  scalped,  and  left  to  die  in 
their  agony. 

The  party  halted  as  they  came  upon  the  clearing, 
and  stood  gazing  in  silent  sorrow  at  the  mournful  scene. 
Each  one  thought  of  the  little  ones  he  had  left,  and 
how  such  might  be  their  fate. 

When  the  whole  party  had  deployed  into  the  in- 
closure,  and  all  were  assembled  around  the  dead, 
Lieutenant  Wadsworth  spoke :  "  Friends,  there  is 
one  duty  that  remains  for  us  before  we  go  farther, — 
to  give  a  Christian  burial  to  these,  our  murdered 
brethren ;  and  not  leave  their  bones  to  be  gnawed  by 
the  wolves  and  the  catamounts.  Ensign  Dudley,  you 
are  detached  to  superintend  this  solemn  business. 
Sergeant  Webster,  select  a  man,  and  ascertain  from 
their  trail  the  number  of  our  foes,  and  the  direction 
which  they  took.  Henry  Dudley,  restrain  that  dog 
of  yours,  or  he  must  be  killed." 

The  dog,  as  he  saw  the  bodies,  had  set  up  a  long, 
unearthly  howl,  which  would  have  soon  given  to  the 
pursued  foe  a  knowledge  of  their  approach.  Henry 
obeyed,  for  the  solemnities  of  the  scene  and  the  firm 
ness  of  the  command  overawed  him. 

Edward  set  about  his  duty  immediately.     In  a 


206       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

rude  log  barn,  which  had  been  overlooked  by. the 
savages,  he  found  two  shovels,  a  spade,  and  a  hoe. 
With  the  latter,  he  scraped  off  the  top  of  the  ground 
in  the  place  which  he  had  selected,  in  the  midst  of 
their  little  garden,  where  no  roots  would  retard  their 
digging.  The  soil  was  light  and  sandy,  and  the  labor 
of  excavation  easy.  Three  men  took  the  implements, 
and  worked  with  all  their  strength  for  a  few  minutes ; 
and  then,  at  a  nod  from  Edward,  three  others  took 
their  place.  In  a  short  time  a  trench  was  thus  dug, 
deep  enough  to  hold  the  bodies,  and  wide  enough  for 
two  to  lie  abreast.  Reverently  was  each  corpse 
borne  to  its  last  resting-place  in  the  garments  that 
their  murderers  had  left ;  the  father,  the  mother,  the 
noble  boys,  and  the  blooming  girls,  were  all  carefully 
deposited  in  that  rough  tomb,  by  men  who  felt  the 
reality  and  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion. 

Edward,  himself,  threw  the  first  shovel-full  of 
earth  on  the  bodies,  and  the  zeal  of  the  men  soon 
filled  the  grave  ;  loose  stones  were  heaped  up  upon 
the  mound,  and  the  buried  were  thus  left  until  the 
resurrection  morning. 

This  work  being  done,  Edward  then  reverently 
took  off  his  hat,  which  he  laid  upon  the  rock ;  and 
spreading  out  his  hands,  addressed  the  Father  of  us 
all  in  Heaven.  Each  rough  soldier  uncovered  his 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  207 

head,  and  bent  his  eye  in  reverence.  Edward's  prayer 
was  short.  There  was  too  much  work  to  perform  for 
a  long  address.  He  begged  for  a  sanctification  of 
this  event  to  the  soldiers  before  him  ;  that  each  arm 
might  be  strengthened,  and  each  heart  nerved  by  the 
sight  which  they  had  seen ;  that  Grod  might  see  fit  to 
make  them  the  instruments  of  punishing  this  atrocity, 
and  preserve  their  lives  for  it. 

When  he  concluded,  and  had  replaced  his  hat,  he 
drew  his  cutlass  with  a  jerk  and  a  rattle  that  made 
the  pine-woods  resound  again. 

"  Brethren,"  said  he,  waving  his  sword  over  his 
head,  "  we  have  done  the  last  duty  to  the  dead  but 
one,  and  that  is  to  avenge  them.  Their  souls  are 
in  God's  hands ;  vengeance  is  in  ours.  Are  you 
ready?" 

The  low  murmur,  "  We  are  ! "  was  the  response 
of  the  men. 

They  then  gathered  their  arms  and  their  knap 
sacks,  and  resumed  their  march.  There  was  no  word 
of  threatening, — no  huzza  of  excitement.  They  were 
men  who  went  to  such  a  work  calmly,  deliberately, 
solemnly.  With  them,  it  was  a  religious  duty.  The 
scene  of  devastation  before  them  was  but  another 
argument,  added  to  the  long  chain  of  reasons,  that 
the  native  tribes  should  be  exterminated ;  and  not  a 


208       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

soul  present  stepped  forward  on  the  coming  march 
with  any  feelings  of  compunction  or  compassion  to 
wards  the  savage  race.  What  had  been  the  fate  of 
the  family  of  this  settler  might  be  theirs,  unless  the 
whole  race  were  cut  off. 

The  character  of  the  Puritan  was  precisely  fitted 
to  the  conquest  and  settlement  of  a  new  country. 
There  was  a  solemn  sternness  about  all  his  resolves 
that  conducted  to  ultimate  success,  even  under  the 
most  discouraging  obstacles.  These  settlers  never 
sat  down  to  weep  under  the  pressure  of  their  lot,  but, 
with  a  trust  on  high,  rose  up  to  work.  The  same 
solemnity  and  sternness  ran  through  all  their  domes 
tic  life.  They  were  kind,  but  never  indulgent.  Rigid 
in  their  discipline,  they  formed  men  to  be  the  future 
lawgivers  and  citizens  of  the  great  Republic  that  was 
to  arise. 

Henry  was  surprised  and  awed  at  the  new  light 
in  which  his  brother  now  stood  before  him.  He  had 
thought  of  him,  hitherto,  as  the  sharer  of  his  bed,  the 
companion  of  his  sports,  the  partaker  of  his  labors. 
He  now  saw  him  commencing  the  great  struggle  of 
life, — a  man  among  men, — swaying  their  passions, 
governing  their  wills,  influencing  their  decisions, — 
and  he  was  awed.  It  was  no  longer  his  brother  Ed- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  209 

ward  that  he  saw,  but  one  destined  to  wield  the 
power  of  the  rising  community. 

Sergeant  "Webster  had  returned  from  his  assigned 
duty  before  the  ceremony  of  interment  was  finished. 
He  leaned  upon  his  gun,  watching  with  solemn  sever 
ity  the  whole  scene.  He  then  remembered  the  log- 
house  near  the  Little  River,  where  sons  and  daugh 
ters  called  him  father  ;  and  that  they  too  were  sub 
ject  to  a  similar  fate,  unless  such  enemies  were 
exterminated. 

When  Dudley  had  finished,  Webster  advanced  to 
Lieut.  Wadsworth,  and  said  in  a  low,  stern  voice, 
"  Follow  me."  He  led  them  to  the  borders  of  the 
little  cleared  corn-field  of  the  cottager,  where  the 
freshly  made  foot-prints  of  a  large  body  of  Indians 
could  be  perceived  crossing  it.  He  called  attention 
to  one  larger,  and  with  a  very  differently  constructed 
moccason. 

'•'Tis  Samoset's,"  said  Lieut.  Wadsworth  and 
Edward,  in  a  breath ;  "we  examined  that  foot-print 
too  closely  but  a  short  time  since  not  to  remember  it." 

"  The  other  Indians  are  some  French  tribe,"  said 
Webster ;  "  they  have  the  Canadian  form  in  their 
tracks." 

"Where's  Samoset's  track?"  said  Henry;  "show 
it  to  me.  Here,  Bevis,  smell  him." 


210 

He  took  the  dog  by  the  leash,  and  put  his  nose 
into  the  foot-print.  "  Hie,  hie,  find  him  ! " 

"  Well  thought  of,"  said  Wads  worth  ;  "keep  him 
before  you,  and  hold  him  in  ;  and  we  can  pursue  that 
track  by  his  aid." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

"Now  in  that  bushy  dell,  the  echoes  rose 
Of  many  a  dreadful  sound;  the  crash  of  tomahawk, 
Drinking  the  life  blood  of  the  sever'd  brain ; 
The  scream  of  parting  life  heard  loud  and  shrill 
Amid  the  storm  of  war ;  the  deep-toned  curse 
As  broke  the  fragile  spear,  when  needed  most ; 
While,  over  all,  the  shout  Altawmah  gave, 
Exulting,  as  he  drove  the  death-axe  home." 

Altawmah :  Canto  III. 

THE  march  was  again  commenced.  Each  matchlock 
man  unbound  his  rest  from  his  gun,  and  examined  his 
powder  and  his  match.  Cutlasses  were  loosened  in 
the  sheath,  and  pistols  examined.  The  pikemen  fell 
in  the  rear,  as  less  fitted  to  carry  on  a  tree  fight,  if 
such  was  to  be  the  order  of  battle. 

The  march  had  not  been  continued  more  than 
half  an  hour,  thanks  to  Bevis's  assistance  in  finding 


212       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

the  trail,  when  Wadsworth  halted  the  party  and  lis 
tened.  The  dog  could  hardly  be  restrained,  for  dis 
tant  shots  were  now  plainly  heard,  and  the  faint  echo 
of  the  terrific  war-whoop — generally  a  fearful  sound 
to  the  settlers'  ears,  but  one  which  the  Connecticut 
men  were  beginning,  to  despise. 

The  order  was  given  for  all  the  matchlock-men 
but  ten  to  deploy  on  the  flanks  of  the  foe,  each  seiz 
ing  a  tree,  and  advancing,  while  a  pikeman  was  to 
cover  him  at  the  same  tree,  to  protect  him  from  a 
sudden  rush.  Edward  was  ordered  to  remain  in  the 
rear  with  the  ten  matchlock-men,  to  act  as  a  reserve, 
and  strengthen  where  a  reinforcement  might  be 
needed. 

"  You  do  not  intend  to  follow  this  mean,  dastardly 
mode  of  tree  fighting,  do  you,  brother  ?  "  said  Henry. 
"  How  our  knightly  ancestors  would  have  blushed  at 
such  a  departure  from  the  rules  of  chivalry !  Why 
not  march  out,  at  once,  and  drive  them  from  their 
covert  ?  " 

"  Henry,  you  speak  foolishly.  Every  nation  has 
its  customs.  We  have  no  means  of  encountering  a 
foe  like  this,  but  by  imitating  his  own  mode  of  fight 
ing,  and  there  prove  our  superiority.  Watch  the 
fight,  and  you  will  learn  something  to  guide  you  in 
after  life." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  213 

A  shot  was  heard  nearer.  "  Men,  to  your  trees," 
said  Edward.  Each  took  a  huge  tree  in  front  of  him, 
and  peered  cautiously  around  its  trunk.  Edward 
beckoned  Henry  to  him.  "  Follow  me,  brother,  and 
do  as  I  do.  Tie  Bevis  to  this  tree,  and  leave  him 
for  the  present.  He  will  only  be  injured." 

A  bullet  from  a  distant  gun  struck  very  near 
Henry,  which  led  him  to  imitate  Edward's  example. 

"  Oblique  to  the  left,"  was  the  word  passed  from 
tree  to  tree,  "  to  fall  on  the  enemy's  flank,  we  are 
too  near  the  flank  of  our  own  friends." 

Henry  wondered  at  the  ease  and  precision  with 
which  the  manoeuvre  was  executed,  each  soldier  pass 
ing  rapidly  from  one  tree  to  another,  bearing  to  the 
left,  but  still  advancing,  until  a  rising  ground  was 
reached,  from  which  the  van  of  the  extreme  left 
could  see  the  encounter  beneath  them. 

The  Massachusetts  men  were  but  a  small  band, 
and  were  retreating,  having  evidently  lost  many  of 
their  number,  but  still  turning  behind  each  tree,  and 
firing  as  they  retreated.  The  Indians,  flushed  with 
success,  were  pressing  on  in  a  direction  that  brought 
the  Hartford  reinforcement  on  the  flank  and  even 
rear  of  their  extreme  right.  Wadsworth's  disposi 
tions  were  soon  made.  He  headed  the  men  who 
pressed  down  obliquely  on  their  flank,  while  Webster 


214       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

led  a  second  division  to  the  left,  and  Ensign  Dudley, 
with  the  reserve,  passed  round  the  base  of  the  hill  to 
attack  the  rear  and  cut  off  the  retreat  of  the  Indians 
in  that  direction. 

The  first  intimation  of  the  presence  of  the  Con 
necticut  men  which  the  savages  had,  came  from  a 
murderous  discharge  from  Wadsworth's  division, 
which  cut  down  many  of  their  ablest  men.  The 
right  wing  of  the  Indians  wheeled  at  once,  and  took 
another  station  behind  the  trees,  while  Wadsworth's 
division,  under  the  cover  of  the  smoke  and  confusion, 
seized  a  station  considerably  in  advance.- 

Seeing  a  reinforcement,  the  Massachusetts  men 
turned  and  pressed  forward  in  their  turn,  thus  bring 
ing  the  Indians  partly  between  two  fires. 

Webster's  division,  of  course,  had  farther  to  go 
to  reach  the  rear  of  the  Indian  line,  and  Dudley's 
still  farther.  But  the  fire  of  Webster's  division 
scattered  the  Indians,  and  the  battle  was  decided 
before  Dudley  reached  the  assigned  ground. 

Indians  are  never  good  soldiers  under  a  surprise. 
They  broke  in  confusion  at  once,  and  endeavoured  to 
escape  by  their  own  left  flank.  But  here  they  were 
met  by  the  Massachusetts  men,  and  assailed  in  the 
rear  by  Webster's  division.  A  few  broke  from  their 
covert,  and  endeavoured  to  rush  by  the  flank  of  Web- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  215 

ster's  force,  but  were   met  with  a  heavy  tire,   and 
pinned  to  the  earth  by  the  pikes  as  they  passed. 

Dudley's  corps  now  came  into  action,  and  picked 
off  many  of  the  stragglers.  One  powerful  Indian, 
formidable  with  European  arms,  and  frightful  in  his 
war-paint,  had  nearly  reached  Edward's  left,  when 
Henry  called  out,  "  It  is  Samoset ;  give  him  to  me 
to  fill  up  my  vengeance  ! "  So  saying,  he  sprang  for 
ward  from  his  covert,  and  madly  pursued  his  foe. 
Samoset  heard  the  shout  of,  "  Stay,  you  scoundrel 
of  an  Indian,"  and  stepped  behind  a  tree.  In  vain 
Edward  cried  out  to  Henry  to  be  wary,  and  exposed 
himself  to  rush  to  his  rescue.  Samoset  discharged  his 
piece  ineffectually,  and  flinging  it  away,  he  rushed  upon 
Henry,  struck  him  with  his  knife  in  the  breast,  and 
seizing  him  in  his  arms,  flung  him  with  great  violence 
to  the  ground.  He  stepped  one  foot  on  him,  and  had 
raised  his  tomahawk  to  strike  the  blow  for  the  scalp, 
when  Edward,  outstripping  the  men,  struck  him  with 
his  cutlass,  and  then  seized  him  around  the  arms. 

A  struggle  for  life  and  death  ensued.  Samoset 
was  older,  heavier,  and  stronger,  but  he  had  to  con 
tend  in  this  wrestling  match  with  one  more  agile  and 
active,  whose  muscles  were  all  flexible  and  at  his  com 
mand.  Edward  tried  to  fling  him,  but  in  vain. 
Samoset  endeavored  to  release  his  arms  to  use  his 


216       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES! 


tomahawk,  but  was  unable  to  do  it.  The  men  could 
not  fire  without  injury  to  Edward,  but  they  ran  as 
rapidly  as  their  heavy  armor  would  permit. 

But  a  new  combatant  was  before  them  on  the 
scene  of  action.  Bevis,  when  he  was  tied  at  a  dis 
tance,  had  heard  his  master's  shout  as  he  pursued 
Samoset,  and  breaking  his  leash,  came  .bounding  to 
wards  the  combatants.  Springing  up,  he  seized  Sam 
oset  by  the  shoulder,  and  brought  him  to  the  ground, 
where  the  blows  of  the  pikemen,  who  first  reached  the 
spot,  soon  put  an  end  to  his  existence. 

The  victory  was  complete  ;  hardly  ten  of  the  sav 
ages  escaped  towards  their  canoes,  and  many  of  them 
were  shot  by  their  pursuers  before  they  reached 
them. 

When  Wadsworth  and  Webster  returned  from 
the  pursuit,  they  found  Henry  nearly  dead  from  his 
wounds  and  bruises,  while  the  men  were  stanching 
his  blood,  and  Edward  was  supporting  his  head. 
Bevis,  too,  was  alternately  licking  his  dying  master's 
hand,  and  then  growling  over  and  tearing,  in  his  rage, 
the  lifeless  body  of  Samoset. 

"  What !  Henry  Dudley  wounded  !  Where  is 
it  ?  Ha  !  an  ugly  place.  Handle  him  gently,  men. 
Double  a  blanket  under  him,  that  he  may  lie  easier. 
Who  did  it  ?  What,  that  cunning  serpent,  Samoset  ? 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  217 

But  I  see  lie  has  paid  the  penalty  for  all  his  evil 
deeds." 

His  whistle  called  his  men  around  him.  "  Friends 
and  brethren,  you  have  gained  a  bloodless  victory  to 
ourselves,  there  being  no  one  seriously  wounded  but 
Henry  Dudley.  It  is  now  drawing  near  night. 
Quartermaster  Bull,  see  to  the  preparations  for  the 
evening  meal,  and  Corporal  Goodwin,  look  out  for  a 
proper  place  for  an  encampment.  To-morrow,  we 
must  proceed  farther  up,  and  drive  the  savages  from 
Hadley  and  Deerfield." 

Henry,  now  somewhat  revived,  muttered,  wan- 
deringly,  "  Where's  mother  ?  " 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Corporal  Bull,  "  we  must 
contrive  some  means  to  make  the  night  comfortable  to 
him." 

"  Oh,  brother,  brother,  let  me  die  at  home.  Carry 
me  back  to  my  own  little  chamber.  I  cannot  die 
here  in  the  dark  woods.  Can  I  not  live  to  be  carried 
home,  and  die  in  my  mother's  arms  ?  " 

What  a  picture  for  a  painter  did  that  scene  fur 
nish  ?  The  beautiful  youth,  lying  at  his  length,  his 
face  in  the  last  agony  of  life,  his  head  upon  his  bro 
ther's  breast,  whose  tears  fell  like  rain  on  the  dying 
Henry's  head, — the  stalwart  forms  of  the  stern 
Puritans,  looking  on  in  their  compassion, — the  dead 
10 


218       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

Indian, — the  dog  crouched  at  his  master's  feet,  lick 
ing  his  cold  hand, — the  eternal  forest  around  them, 
dressed  in  its  autumn  glories.  What  a  picture  ! 

Ag;nn  Henry  moaned  out,  "  Carry  me  home  to 
die  !  I  li'ft  my  mother,  contrary  to  her  commands. 
Let  me  see  her  only  once  before  I  close  my  eyes  on 
this  world's  scenes,  and  beseech  her  forgiveness. 
Oh,  let  me  die  at  home  !  " 

Poor  boy !  The  last  drops  of  life  were  even 
then  welling  from  his  heart. 

"  Brother,"  whispered  Edward,  "  it  is  too  late ; 
there  is  now  no  refuge  but  in  Christ." 

The  dying  youth's  mind  wandered.  "Who  are 
these  standing  around  my  bedside  ?  They  all  look 
like  father  in  his  stern  mood.  Where's  mother  ? 
Why  is  not  she  here  to  hold  my  aching  head  ? 
Where's  Jane  ?  Will  she  not  see  me  once  more  ?  " 

Wadsworth  stooped  and  gently  wiped  off  the 
damp  dews  of  death  that  were  settling  on  his  fore 
head,  and  the  froth  that  covered  his  lips,  for  Ed 
ward  was  too  much  overcome  for  even  these  sad 
duties. 

"  Was  that  mother  ?  "  said  Henry,  as  he  started 
at  the  touch  and  opened  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  no ;  no  : 
trees  and  armed  men  !  Even  the  blue  sky  shut  out. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  219 

Give  me  air.     Let  me  breathe  the  sweet  perfume  of 
home  once  more  !     Oh  !  let  me  die  at  home  ! " 

The  words  gurgled  in  the  throat,  the  breath 
stopped,  and  then,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  the  spirit 
left  its  clayey  tenement. 


220       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES; 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  The  old,  old  fashion !  The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  gar 
ments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course,  and  the 
wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The  old,  old  fashion— Death ! " 

Doinbey  and  Son. 

"  LIEUTENANT  WADSWORTH,"  said  Sergeant  Webster, 
"  I  would  advise  that  the  corpse  of  our  young  friend 
be  immediately  sent,  under  a  proper  escort,  to  his 
home." 

"  My  own  decision  leans  that  way.  The  mode 
must  be  by  the  river.  There  is,  I  am  told,  a  flat- 
bottomed  boat  near  us,  with  a  square  sail,  which  the 
Indians  stole,  somewhere  above,  in  which  to  cross 
the  river,  in  addition  to  their  canoes.  It  will  be 
readily  given  up  to  us  for  this  purpose.  Ensign 
Dudley  will,  of  course,  accompany  the  body,  and  be 
released  from  the  remaining  labors  of  the  expedition. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  221 

David  Rice  and  Aaron  Clarke,  who  understand  the 
navigation  of  the  river,  will  accompany  them.  There 
is  yet  sufficient  light  to  commence  the  voyage,  and 
the  moonlight  will  last  until  the  rapids  are  cleared. 
Ensign  Dudley,  does  this  arrangement  meet  with  your 
approbation  ?  " 

"  Do  as  you  list,"  was  the  reply ;  "I  have  no 
power  of  judging  left." 

"  The  sooner  then  that  it  is  done  the  better." 

The  body  was  then  enveloped  in  a  blanket,  and 
carried  by  the  sorrowing  soldiers  to  the  boat.  Bevis 
slowly  followed,  every  now  and  then  uttering  a 
mournful  howl.  The  remains  were  placed  gently  on 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  after  packing  beneafh  it  sev 
eral  of  the  bloody  blankets  torn  from  the  Indian 
corpses.  The  head  was  slightly  raised  and  propped, 
so  that  it  could  not  roll,  and  a  blanket  spread  over 
the  whole.  Edward  silently  took  his  place  as  steers 
man,  while  Rice  and  Clark  pushed  the  boat  off  with 
their  long  oars,  and  hoisted  their  sail  to  the  north 
wind.  The  boat  slowly  put  off  the  shore,  the  men 
with  their  officers  standing  uncovered  until  it  had 
reached  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  was  fairly  in 
the  current. 

The  moon  still  gave  a  checkered  light  through 
the  western  trees,  as  the  boat  shot  down  the  rapids, 


222       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

but  left  them  in  darkness  as  they  skirted  along  the 
sparse  dwellings  of  "Windsor  settlement — now  silent 
in  the  embrace  of  sleep.  The  day  had  dawned  when 
the  Hartford  chimneys  appeared  in  view,  and  the  sun 
had  risen  before  the  boat  was  moored  in  the  Little 
River,  near  the  foot  of  Front-street. 

The  news  of  her  arrival  and  the  freight  she  car 
ried,  spread  before  she  rounded  Dutch  Point,  and 
passed  the  fort :  Mr.  Hooker  and  Deacon  Nichols 
felt  it  their  duty  to  break  the  news  to  the  afflicted 
parents,  while  Governor  Haynes  and  some  of  the 
Magistrates  met  the  boat  at  the  dock  with  the  bier 
in  their  hands.  The  procession  was  a  long,  sad  one. 
The  event  had  collected  almost  every  male  of  the 
settlement :  some  from  curiosity;  others,  from  sympa 
thy  with  a  family  that  all  respected ;  others,  to  hear 
from  Bice  and  Clarke  the  events  of  the  campaign, 
and  the  safety  of  the  little  band  that  had  left  them. 

The  grief  of  the  father  at  hearing  the  news,  was 
repressed,  for  men  were  looking  at  him,  and  he  shut 
up  every  emotion  within  the  iron  gates  of  his  own 
heart, — but  that  of  the  mother  was  frantic.  She  had 
been  struck  where  the  blow  was  most  keenly  felt,  and 
her  exclamations  were  almost  in  so  many  words  : 
"  Ye  have  taken  away  my  gods,  and  what  have  I 
left  ?  "  She  was  for  rushing  to  the  boat,  or  for  stop- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  223 

ping  the  bier  in  its  progress,  but  was  prevented  by 
the  kind  firmness  of  Mr.  Hooker.  "  You  cannot  see 
him  until  he  has  been  prepared  for  the  death  cham 
ber,"  was  the  firm  announcement. 

On  reaching  the  Chouse,  Governor  Haynes  author 
itatively  bade  the  multitude  to  disperse,  and  none  to 
enter  the  house  of  mourning  but  those  he  designated. 
He  directed  Mr.  Hopkins  and  Mr.  Culick  to  exam 
ine  the  two  men  who  had  returned,  and  to  publish 
the  full  accounts  of  the  reported  battle  at  the  town- 
house  at  10  o'clock,  at  which  hour  he  summoned  the 
people.  He  then  directed  the  few  whom  he  had  suf 
fered  to  enter  the  house,  to  wash  and  dress  the  body 
before  the  parents  saw  it. 

Edward  went  at  once  to  his  mother's  room,  and 
related  to  her  and  his  father  the  scenes  of  Henry's 
death. 

"  Did  you  make  no  effort  to  save  him?  Did  you 
desert  him  in  the  hour  of  his  greatest  need  ?  " 

"  Mother,  no  :  I  have  still  on  my  body  an  un 
dressed  wound  which  Samoset  gave  me  in  the  con 
test." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  son ;  this  blow  is  too  heavy 
for  me.  Heaven  preserve  my  intellect." 

"  Anne,  remember  who  chastens, — from  whom 
the  blow  comes,  and  be  humble." 


224 

"  I  will,  husband,  I  will,  but  not  now.  I  cannot 
now." 

The  hour  for  the  funeral  had  arrived.  It  was 
the  custom  for  the  early  settlers  of  the  State  to  hold 
such  religious  services  as  were  then  common  at  fune 
rals,  at  the  Meeting-House.  In  small  communities, 
each  person  knows  every  other ;  and  in  a  newly- 
settled  community,  a  wonderful  and  powerful  degree 
of  unanimity  of  feeling  prevails.  They  are  all  mem 
bers  of  one  great  family.  Hence,  in  their  small 
houses,  there  never  would  be  room  enough  for  the 
assembling  together  of  the  whole.  As  religious  cere 
monies  were  early  considered  proper,  it  was  thought 
best  to  hold  funerals  in  the  Meeting-House. 

A  sufficient  number  of  men  to  carry  the  corpse 
went  to  the  house,  but  stood  without  in  the  yard  or 
street.  Four  of  the  number  then  went  in,  accompa 
nied  by  some  one  who  assumed  the  guidance  of  the 
whole,  as  a  kind  of  manager,  who  brought  the  coffin 
out  and  placed  it  upon  the  bier.  The  mourners  then 
came  out,  two  and  two ;  the  bearers  raised  the  bier 
to  their  shoulders,  and  the  men  formed  in  procession 
in  front,  while  the  women  and  children  followed  the 
mourners  in  the  rear.  The  bell  struck  its  solemn 
note,  as  the  bier  was  lifted,  and  tolled  at  long  and 
measured  intervals,  during  the  progress  of  the  pro- 


225 

cession.  As  they  marched  slowly  on,  four  from  the 
head  of  the  procession  stopped,  two  on  each  side,  and 
waited  until  the  coffin  reached  them.  They  then 
took  their  turns  to  "bear  it,  while  the  four  relieved 
formed  in  the  front  of  the  coffin,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  four  more  stepped  one  side  from  the  head  of 
the  procession  to  await  their  turn  in  the  sad  labor. 

Reader  !  You  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the 
hearse  and  the  carriages  of  a  city  funeral  for  years, 
do  you  remember  the  awe  with  which  this  procession 
of  men  struck  you  in  your  childhood  ?  the  chill  that 
came  over  you,  when  the  four  in  advance  stepped 
silently  one  side,  until  the  dead, — or,  as  it  seemed  to 
your  young  imagination, — death  itself  reached  them  ? 
— the  shudder,  as  the  coffin  rocked,  as  it  was  shifted 
from  shoulder  to  snoulder,  and  the  fear  lest  it  should 
fall,  and  the  sheeted  dead  burst  out  into  the  gaping 
crowd  ?  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  when  you 
was  thought  old  enough  to  join  in  this  solemn  duty 
of  carrying  the  dead  to  their  last  resting-place  ? — the 
fear  lest  you  should  stumble  and  fall,  or  allow  the 
weight  to  slip  from  your  shoulders  ? 

But  the  days  of  the  bier, — the  coffin  borne  on  the 
shoulders — the  long  procession  winding  slowly  on  a^ 
mild  summer  afternoon,  far  off  to  the  solitary  hill,-' 
where  the  dead  all  slept  soundly  together, — are  all 
10* 


226       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

gone — and  with  them,  many  of  the  ties  which  bound 
humanity  together,  and  many  of  the  solemn  lessons 
taught  to  the  living. 

Such  was  the  funeral  of  Henry  Dudley.  The 
long  procession  moved  through  the  streets  to  the 
first  rude  Meeting- House  that  stood  near  the  site  of 
the  present  State-House.  The  father  stepped  firm 
ly,  though  there  was  no  bravado  or  defiance  to  the 
world  on  his  brow  ;  but  he  saw  not  the  groups  of 
his  pitying  neighbors  and  fellow-citizens  that  were 
around  him,  nor  heard  the  stifling  whisper  of  the 
children,  as  they  pointed  out,  "  That's  his  father." 
His  wife  clung  to  his  arm  with  both  her  hands, 
and  seemed  almost  to  be  carried  by  him.  Her  face 
was  closely  shrouded  by  her  veil,  but  the  by-stand- 
ers  could  see  the  shudder  that  ran  through  her 
slight  and  fragile  form,  as  she  raised  her  head  at  the 
interruptions  which  the  change  of  bearers  produced. 

Edward  walked  alone  in  their  rear — fit  emblem, 
he  thought,  of  the  solitary  life  he  must  henceforth 
lead — but  not  the  less  resolved  to  hide  every  burn 
ing  feeling  and  ardent  thought,  under  the  same  im 
penetrable  face  of  calm,  moveless  expression.  Duty 
was  to  be  his  external  aim.  Passion  and  sorrow  and 
affection  were  to  be  buried  in  his  heart,  as  deep  as 
the  grave  now  gaping  for  Henry.  He  thought  of 


OR     TWO    CENTURIES    AGO. 


227 


his  mother,  and  trembled  as  he  saw  her  weak  frame 
writhing  under  the  tempest  of  grief  which  had  as 
sailed  her.  "  She  must  go  next,"  was  the  saddening 
thought.  "My  father,  too, — grief  must  bend  and 
shake  that  strong,  oak-like  frame,  and  stern,  unyield 
ing  character.  I  must  take  his  place  soon,  and  give 
the  whole  energies  of  my  soul,  as  he  has  done,  to  the 
perfection  of  the  principles  on  which  this  rising  col 
ony  is  to  be  built.  Why,  then,  should  I  suffer  the 
same  grief  that  hurried  Henry  to  frenzy,  to  freeze 
up  the  current  of  my  soul,  and  to  make  me  unfit  for 
the  great  duties  that  lie  before  me  ?  No  :  here,  as  I 
follow  the  remains  of  my  early  and  only  playmate  to 
the  grave,  I  form  the  strong  resolve  to  crush  all  pri 
vate  emotions,  and  to  live  alone  for  my  parents  and 
my  country." 


228       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ] 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

" The  lost :  the  lost:  they're  in  the  grave,  no  more  my  path  to  cheer ; 
Their  forms  no  more  shall  bless  my  view,  a  lonely  wanderer  here. 
They've  breathed  the  last  warm  wish  for  me ;  the  last  fond  hope  have 

felt; 
And  in  their  strong  desires  for  me,  in  last  fond  prayer  have  knelt." 

Old  Times. 

WE  pass  over  the  religious  ceremonies  of  the  church. 
After  rising  for  prayer,  as  she  sat  down,  Anne  Dud 
ley  placed  her  husband's  arm  around  her,  and  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  The  Colonel  seemed, 
at  first,  to  feel  that  the  exhibition  of  any  affection 
was  out  of  place  on  such  a  public  occasion,  and  par 
tially  withdrew  his  arm  and  let  it  fall  by  her  side, 
but  Anne  drew  it  up  again,  and  he  did  not  remove 
it. 

Much  as  the  Puritan  character  revolted  against 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  229 

any  display  of  affection  in  public,  as  partaking  of  a 
lascivious  tendency,  not  a  soul  present  but  felt  its 
propriety  and  beauty  now.  The  idol  of  the  mother 
had  been  removed,  and  the  loss  but  drew  her  the 
more  closely  to  the  husband.  Mr.  Hooker  alluded 
to  it  very  beautifully  in  his  closing  address  to  the 
mourners.  As  he  spoke  to  the  bereaved  mother, 
he  said,  "May  you  find,  madam,  the  arm  of  the. 
Almighty  drawn  around  your  soul  to  comfort  it,  as 
the  arm  of  your  husband  is  now  drawn  around  your 
body  to  support  it." 

The  graveyard  was  north  of  the  church,  on  a 
slight  eminence,  now  levelled,  where  some  of  our 
public-houses  now  stand.  Many  of  the  trees  were 
still  flourishing  in  their  primeval  majesty,  but  clad 
in  the  brown  tints  of  the  decaying  year.  A  slight 
shower,  the  night  before,  had  stripped  them  of  their 
gaudy  plumage,  and  the  yellow  and  red  leaves  of  the 
poplar  and  the  maple  were  lying  in  heaps  upon  the 
grassy  graves.  The  coffin  was  stripped  of  its  pall, 
and  lowered  into  the  grave. 

Oh !  how  the  mother's  soul  shuddered  as  the' 
ends  of  the  last  earthly  house  of  her  Henry  grated 
on  the  pebbles  as  it  slowly  sank  into  the  earth !  A 
few  shovels  full  of  soil  were  then  flung  upon  the  cof 
fin,  and  the  minister  solemnly  returned  the  thanks 


230       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES  J 

of  the  mourners  for  "  burying  their  dead  out  of 
their  sight;"  when  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  the 
grave-digger  and  his  assistant  shovelled  in  the  re 
maining  earth,  without  any  ceremony. 

Col.  Dudley  endeavored  to  persuade  his  wife  to 
leave  the  place ;  but  no :  there  was  a  terrible  fasci 
nation  to  stay  and  watch  until  every  glimpse  of  the 
coffin  of  her  son  was  hidden  from  sight ;  and,  even 
then,  it  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  she  could  be 
hurried  away,  though  the  flushed  cheek,  hot  hand, 
and  trembling  frame  told  her  husband  that  the  ex 
citement  had  proved  too  much  for  her. 

There  is  no  sound  in  animate  or  inanimate  nature 
so  intensely  saddening  as  that  of  the  fall  of  the  first 
clod  of  earth  on  the  coffin  of  a  beloved  friend.  The 
heart  never  feels  so  utterly  forsaken  as  at  that  mo 
ment.  While  the  friend  was  struggling  with  life, 
there  was  hope.  No  one  ever  relinquishes  it.  Even 
after  the  absolute  certainty  of  death  is  forced  upon 
the  understanding,  there  still  is  a  kind  o'f  lingering 
hope  that  some  miracle  might  yet  take  place — that  it 
may  be  but  a  trance — that  the  dead  may  live.  We 
think  of  all  the  miracles  which  Christ  wrought  on 
earth,  and  feel  as  if  ours  was  just  the  case  to  call 
out  his  compassion  to  restore  the  lost  one. 

It  is  not  Hope.     She  has  left  the  threshold.     It 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  231 

is  but  clinging  to  the  shadow  which  she  throws  on 
the  wall  at  her  departure. 

But  when  the  coffin  is  closed,  and  the  lid  screwed 
down,  and  the  pall  flung  over  it,  we  tremble,  for  even 
the  shadow  of  Hope  has  left  us.  Then  comes  the 
grave — the  heaped  up  earth  by  its  side — the  sobered 
eyes  of  the  sorrowing  spectators  all  turned  upon  us 
— the  grating  of  the  coffin  as  it  moves  down  the 
deep,  dark  pit, — and  then,  as  the  solemn  sound  of 
that  first  shovel-full  of  earth  comes  up,  deadened,  from 
the  depths  below,  it  knells  death — death — to  .the 
heart.  The  last  farewell  of  the  soul  until  the  resur 
rection  morning  is  then  uttered. 

There  is  another  painful  period,  when  friends  are 
lost,  that  the  mourning  heart  feels.  It  is  the  first 
meal  after  the  funeral  is  over.  The  place  at  the 
family  board  is  empty.  There  is  no  saying  that  he 
is  absent  or  sick,  or  will  be  present  soon.  It  never 
more  will  be  occupied.  Move  the  chair  away.  He 
comes  no  more.  Meals,  and  days,  and  months,  and 
yearg — nay,  a  whole  long  lifetime — may  pass,  but 
the  lost  one  comes  no  more ! 

How  well  for  man  it  is,  that  the  sources  of  grief 
dry  up  in  the  heart — that  time  is  the  great  softener 
and  alleviator, — and  that  memory  is  less  intense,  as 
the  world  moves  on.  Man  could  not  endure  and  per- 


232       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

form  the  great  duty  which  God  has  set  before  him, 
if  there  were  no  drying  up  of  the  springs  of  sorrow 
in  his  soul. 

How  well  for  man,  that  he  can  look  beyond  the 
gates  of  the  grave  into  a  country  of  happiness,  peace, 
and  love,  where  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  away,  and 
where  he  hopes,  once  more,  to  meet  the  beloved  ones 
of  earth.  Were  the  grave  "the  be-all  and  end-all" 
of  life,  how  wretched  would  man  be !  But  Hope, 
that  had  fled  from  the  heart,  and  withdrawn  even  its 
darkened  shadow  from  the  wall,  comes  back  with  the 
sunlight  of  Heaven,  which  casts  no  shadow  over  the 
heart,  but  fills  the  soul  with  the  blissful  anticipations 
of  the  future. 

The  evening  meal  was  passed  in  silence  and  in 
tears.  The  evening  exercise  was  from  the  fifteenth 
chapter  of  the  Corinthians,  and  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  belief  in  the  resurrection  lighted  up  the  face  of 
our  Puritan  with  the  glow  of  consolation.  But,  alas ! 
it  struck  no  answering  chord  in  the  heart  of  his  wife; 
the  coflm — the  pall — the  grave  in  the  cold  church 
yard  closed  in  over  the  gloomy  night  of  her  soul. 
As  she  shut  her  eyes,  the  dead  form  of  her  loved  son 
came  before  her  in  such  vivid  distinctness,  that  she 
would  start  as  if  it  were  real.  There  was  no  vision 
of  the  future, — of  hearts  purified  arid  justified,  spend- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  233 

ing  an  eternity  in  glowing  and  glorious  light,  such  as 
flashed  over  her  husband's  mind,  and  were  described 
in  the  bright  language  of  his  Christian  eloquence ; — 
there  was  a  long,  dark  journey  before  her  ;  she  trod 
it  alone ;  gloomy  was  the  aspect  of  the  strait  path, 
as  she  slowly  forced  her  way  through  its  obstacles ; 
it  was  the  path  to  the  grave,  and  she  shuddered  as 
her  mind  seemed  compelled  by  some  extraneous 
power  to  contemplate  it ;  reason  almost  tottered  on 
its  throne,  when  her  husband  closed  his  explanatory 
exercise  on  the  chapter,  and  rose  for  prayer. 

There  was  a  warm  and  kind  vein  of  sympathy 
running  through  his  whole  prayer,  that  soothed  Anne 
Dudley's  spirit,  and  led  the  storm  of  her  mind  to 
seek  relief  in  tears. 

As  she  lay  that  night  with  her  head  on  her 
husband's  breast,  she  broke  out  suddenly  with  the 
exclamation  :  "  Husband,  God  is  righteous,  and  has 
punished  me  as  I  deserve.  As  I  have  lain  here,  the 
past  has  been  brought  before  me  in  the  most  vivid 
coloring.  The  reckless  rashness,  obstinacy,  and  self- 
will  of  our  son  has  been  my  fault.  He  was  my  dar 
ling,  and  I  never  restrained  him  in  childhood  or 
youth.  I  was  proud  of  his  beauty,  and  thus  gave 
him  vain  and  frivolous  ideas.  I  was  proud  of 
his  spirit,  as  manifesting  the  chivalry  of  his  an- 


234       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 


cestors,  and  I  never  checked  its  unholy  prompt 
ings.  God  has  visited  me  in  justice,  and  taken 
my  idol  from  my  heart.  You  restrained  his  petu 
lance  and  his  impetuosity,  and  I  encouraged  it; 
hence  he  came  to  me  under  all  his  restraints  for 
release.  It  is  I  that  have  brought  him  up  to  perish 
early.  It  is  I  that  have  educated  him  to  die  "by  the 
hand  of  violence.  Do  not  comfort  me  by  words, 
dear  husband — it  is  not  just ;  but  press  me  closer  to 
your  breast,  for,  oh,  my  heart  is  cold  within  me." 

"  How  hot  you  are,  my  Anne,  there's  fever  in 
your  system.  Shall  I  rise  and  prepare  some  medi 
cines  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  leave  me  not.  I  shall  not  hold  you 
long.  Again  there  comes  before  my  soul  that  long, 
long,  dark,  gloomy  path,  that  leads  to  the  grave. 
Henry's  pale  and  bloody  form  beckons  me  forward 
in  it." 

"  Anne,  dear  Anne,  your  mind  wanders.  Let 
me  get  some  cooling  drink." 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet.  Let  me  lie  on  your  breast 
yet  awhile.  I  must  soon  exchange  it  for  the  damp 
earth  of  yonder  graveyard." 

She  was  quiet  for  a  while,  when  a  violent  shiver 
ing  fit  succeeded  to  the  burning  fever  of  the  moment 
before. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  235 

In  these  alternations  of  heat  and  cold,  the  night 
was  spent,  and  she  did  not  slumber  until  the  morning 
was  advancing,  when  Col.  Dudley  arose  from  his 
sleepless  couch,  leaving  the  unconscious  Anne  in  her 
fevery  sleep.  He  immediately  despatched  Edward 
for  the  physician  of  the  settlement,  who  at  once  pro 
nounced  that  Mrs.  Dudley  had  a  violent  attack  of 
lung  fever,  that  disorder  so  disastrous  and  fatal  to 
the  early  settlers. 


236 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

"No :  no :  they  are  not  lost  to  us ;  the  dark  cold  grave  holds  not 
All  that  we  priz'd  or  lov'd  so  well,  within  that  narrow  spot. 
A  wider  home,  a  freer  range  is  theirs— that  heavenly  train ; 
Nor  shall  they  feel  again,  as  once,  the  sting  of  grief  or  pain." 

Old  Time*. 

ANNE  DUDLEY  gradually  sank  through  several  suc 
ceeding  (lays.  She  suffered  little  pain — the  sick  of 
that  disease  seldom  do.  For  most  of  the  time,  she 
lay  in  a  state  of  stupor,  where  weakness  and  fever 
were  alternately  performing  their  sad  office. 

She  was  seldom  rational ;  or,  if  giving  rational 
answers,  forgetting  them  in  a  moment.  Often,  dur 
ing  her  sickness,  her  mind  wandered.  There  was  no 
violence  in  the  delirium,  Ibut  the  spirit,  in  its  mut 
tered  words,  seemed  dwelling  on  the  past.  It  was 
the  bright  day  of  youth  and  hope  once  more  with 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  237 

Anne  Stanley.  Sudley  Park  was  before  her  in  its 
beauties.  The  meadow  bank,  rich  with  the  green  of 
early  spring,  with  its  bright  screen  of  hawthorn  blos 
soms,  was  before  her  eyes.  She  smelt  the  morning 
perfume  of  the  violets,  as  the  light  breeze  breathed 
over  their  odor.  She  heard  the  evening  sound  of 
the  curfew,  as  it  came  softened  over  the  low  hills. 
There  was  peace  and  joy  and  youthful  gayety  once 
more  in  her  old,  withered,  crushed  heart. 

Oh,  how  intensely  did  the  anxious  husband  listen 
to  these  low  mutterings  ;  how  the  firm  lips  quivered, 
and  the  stern  eyes  filled,  as  he  followed  these  early 
reminiscences,  and  heard  how  Thomas  Dudley's  name 
mingled  with  their  bliss. 

The  present  was  seldom  with  her  :  most  of  her 
conceptions  were  brilliant  and  beautiful ;  most  of 
them  infantile  recollections  of  her  early  home.  The 
death  and  funeral  of  her  son  were  never  pictured  to 
her  imagination ;  the  long,  long,  dark  gloomy  path 
that  led  to  the  gates  of  the  grave  seemed  banished 
from  her  soul. 

Once,  when  an  unusual  pain  slightly  racked  her 
system,  she  was  terrified  with  a  scene  of  their  early 
life  in  America.  The  first  time  in  which  she  had 
ever  seen  the  Indians  in  their  war-paint,  was  when  a 
party  of  them,  for  some  treaty-making  purposes,  had 


238       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

entered  the  settlement  and  marched  through  the 
streets.  The  sight  struck  terror  into  the  young 
mother's  heart.  She  seized  her  two  little  boys,  and 
fled  into  some  dark  recess  of  the  house,  from  which 
it  required  all  the  tenderness  and  some  of  the  firm 
ness  of  her  husband  to  withdraw  her. 

This  scene  was  re-enacted  in  that  moment  of  pain  : 
the  plumed  and  painted  savage — the  terror — the 
agony,  at  first,  to  find  her  boys,  who  were  exulting 
in  the  pageant  as  it  passed  their  house  in  its  visit  to 
the  Governor — the  vain  effort  to  conceal  them  and 
herself; — all  passed  over  her  mind  in  their  full 
reality. 

As  her  mind  calmed,  when  the  pain  grew  less, 
the  memory  of  that  scene  grew  less  terrific.  "  See, 
husband,"  she  said,  "  how  our  boys  show  out  their 
characters  now.  Edward  looks  on  calmly  and  grave 
ly,  as  if  he  asked  himself  what  is  the  use  of  all  this- 
parade,  while  darling  Henry  claps  his  little  hands 
with  glee,  and  imitates  the  strut  of  the  savages." 

Once,  as  reason  dawned,  she  asked  for  Henry 
and  Edward.  "  Here  I  am,  mother,"  was  Edward's 
soft  reply.  She  looked  around.  "  Oh,  I  remember 
now,"  and  tears  came  to  her  relief. 

Her  husband  watched  over  her,  night  and  day, 
though  every  neighbor  was  kind,  and  the  whole  com- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  239 

munity  anxious.  A  little  band  of  exiles  in  a 
new  and  savage  country  feel  powerfully  drawn  to 
wards  each  other. 

On  the  last  night  of  her  residence  on  earth,  her 
mind  brightened.  She  spoke  of  her  death  with  no 
terror.  She  expressed  her  faith  fully  in  her  Savior. 

"  Husband,  dear  husband,"  said  the  dying  wife,  in 
a  voice  so  low  that  he  had  to  stoop  over  her  to  hear 
it,  "  your  prayers  for  me  have  been  answered,  and  I 
have  peace  within — oh,  what  peace  and  hope  !  Your 
duties  to  me,  so  cheerfully,  kindly,  affectionately 
bestowed,  are  soon  to  be  finished,  but  I  cannot  go 
the  way  of  all  the  living,  without  blessing  you  from 
my  inmost  heart  for  all  that  you  have  been  to  me. 
I  have  often  grieved  that  I  had  not  a  stronger  char 
acter,  and  a  stronger  mind,  to  have  assisted  you  in 
the  great  work  you  have  undertaken  here  in  the  wil 
derness.  I  have  not  been  a  help-meet  for  you.  I 
have  hindered  you  often  by  my  fears  and  my  follies, 
by  domestic  cares — perhaps  by  a  too  exacting  love. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  demanded  from  you"  that  time 
which  would  have  been  better  devoted  to  the  state, 
or  to  God." 

"  Dear  Anne,  think  not  so.  I  have  often  blessed 
my  God,  that  you  was  just  such  a  wife  ; — so  entirely 
fitted  for  the  character  I  must  bear  in  my  outer  des- 


240       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

tiny.  Had  you  interfered  with  my  plans  by  your 
dictation,  or  even  by  your  unasked  advice,  I  might 
have  felt  that  you  was  going  beyond  your  sphere. 
Had  you  been  a  fretful,  complaining  woman,  my 
home  would  soon  have  been  a  wretched  one.  But  you 
have  never  presumed  upon  my  affection  to  direct  my 
plans  ;  when  I  have  felt  doubtful  about  certain  mea 
sures,  I  have  placed  the  subject  before  you,  and  your 
decision  has  always  been  right.  I  was  rejoiced  to 
find  that  you  did  not  take  sufficient  interest  in  the 
discussions  going  on,  to  feel  elated  or  chagrined  at 
their  success  or  failure.  They  were  burdens  that  a 
proud,  firm  man,  as  I  am  called,  prefers  to  bear 
alone.  But  no,  my  dear  wife,  you  have  been  always 
ready  to  soothe  my  cares  by  your  affection,  without 
the  curiosity  to  inquire  what  those  cares  were,  unless 
I  chose  to  unburden  my  heart.  I  have  given  you 
my  confidence,  whenever  I  have  thought  the  confi 
dence  itself  would  not  be  a  burden  to  you.  But,  oh, 
how  delightful  has  been  the  feeling,  when,  agitated 
by  the  trials  of  a  new  colony,  anxious  for  the  success 
of  my  measures,  uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  things  in 
England,  or  disturbed  by  the  encroachments  of  the 
Dutch,  or  the  incursions  of  the  Indians,  how  delight 
ful  it  has  been  to  me  to  feel  that  I  had  a  home, 
inhere  I  could  fling  them  all  aside, — and  that  I  had 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  241 

a  wife,  whose  ready  affection  would  soothe  my  cares 
and  troubles — who  loved  the  man,  not  the  statesman. 
Dear,  very  dear  to  me,  has  been  our  affectionate  in 
tercourse,  Anne.  It  has  softened  me,  led  me  heaven 
ward,  destroyed  the  influences  of  selfishness  and 
pride,  and  strewed  my  path  of  life  with  all  the  flow 
ers  that  God  has  chosen  should  adorn  it.  Without 
you,  I  should  have  been  a  cold,  hard,  haughty  man ; 
forgetful,  too  often,  of  the  nicer  sensibilities  that 
throb  in  the  hearts  of  others." 

She  smiled  upon  him  as  he  stooped  over  her,  and 
raised  her  weak  hand  and  felt  of  the  beloved  face, 
pushed  back  the  hair  on  the  forehead,  and  passed 
her  hand  gently  over  every  feature,  while  her  eyes 
seemed  devouring,  for  the  last  time,  those  lineaments 
so  dear  to  her. 

Dudley  started  as  he  felt  that  hand.  It  was  hard 
and  rough,  with  the  long  labors  of  the  wilderness. 
When  he  had  clasped  it  in  his  own,  he  had  not  felt 
the  change,  for  his  own  were  still  more  hard  and 
rough  and  horn-like  by  his  constant  labor.  He 
thought  of  the  soft,  white  hand  he  had  first  pressed 
on  the  violet  bank  in  Sudley  Park ;  and  a  pang  of 
regret — of  almost  remorse,  passed  across  his  bosom, 
as  he  remembered  to  what  labor  and  toil  and  suffer- 


242       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ' 


ing  his  love  had  subjected  that  tender  and  delicate 
woman. 

But  earth,  its  labors,  and  toils  and  suffering, 
would  soon  be  over.  "  Husband,  kiss  me  once 
more — once  more,  as  in  youthful  love." 

The  last,  long  kiss  of  expiring  love  was  taken  : 
as  she  sank  back  upon  her  pillow,  she  faintly  said : 
"  Thomas,  you  will  soon  follow  me,  will  you  not  ?  " 

That  night,  she  died,  dropping,  all  unconscious 
of  pain  or  of  dissolution,  into  the  long,  last  sleep  of 
death. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  243 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"'Tis  like  those  pangs  the  wretched  know, 
Who  bury  all  they  love  below ; 
"Who  hear  the  clod's  dead,  heavy  fall, 
Upon  the  coffin  of  their  all ; 
Whose  hopes  all  lie  beneath  its  lid, 
Yet  long  to  see  that  coffin  hid ; 
And,  turning  from  the  narrow  cell, 
Reflect  that  all  they  lov'd  so  well, 
Is  mute  and  cold  beneath  the  clay 
That  holds  them  for  corruption's  prey." 

Old  Times. 

AGAIN,  the  long  funeral  train  of  bearers,  with  the  bier 
on  their  shoulders,  sought  the  meeting-house ;  again, 
did  Col.  Dudley  and  his  son  take  their  seat  in  "  the 
pew  reserved  for  the  mourners,"  and  listen  to  the 
voice  of  the  saintly  Hooker,  as  he  preached  the  accus 
tomed  sermon  over  the  dead. 

In  his  glowing  eloquence,  he  delineated  the  life 


244       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

of  the  deceased ;  he  spoke  of  her  youth,  spent  amid 
the  luxuries  of  the  Court  in  England, — of  the  deli 
cate,  and  timid,  and  tender  female,  leaving  all  that 
had  twined  itself  around  an  affectionate  heart,  to  fol 
low  a  beloved  husband  into  the  wilderness,  there  to 
give  the  testimony  of  a  well-spent  life  to  the  religion 
she  professed.  He  described  her  influence  over  the 
women  of  the  colony ;  how,  by  her  labors  and  toils, 
she  had  shown  that  work  was  no  degradation  for  the 
nobly  born, — no  objection  to  the  delicately  bred. 
He  spoke  of  the  example  of  her  purity  and  her  mild 
ness;  of  her  home  virtues,  and  the  light  she  had 
spread  over  that  sacred  inclosure.  He  spoke  of  her 
charities ;  of  their  quiet  distillation  over  the  neigh 
borhood  like  the  dew  of  Heaven;  of  the  many 
mothers  in  Israel  that  she  had  relieved,  strengthened, 
comforted,  supported. 

"Hear  you  that  sob?"  exclaimed  he,  in  tones 
that  thrilled  through  every  heart.  "It  is  not  from 
the  bereaved  husband's  heart.  He  looks  up  in  faith 
beyond  the  veil  of  time,  and  sees  her  now  in  all  the 
glorious  garniture  of  Heaven.  It  is  not  from  the 
motherless  son :  the  spirit  of  submission  to  our 
Father,  God,  restrains  the  agony  of  his  emotion.  It 
is  from  yon  group  of  widows,  whose  stay  and  staff 
has  been  rent  from  their  hands.  Were  tlU  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  245 

proper  place,  you  would  see  them,  like  the  widows 
of  Joppa,  not  only  '  weeping,  but  showing  the  coats 
and  the  garments  which  Dorcas  had  made  while  she 
was  with  them.'  Not  all  the  solemn  requiems  of 
the  cathedrals  of  her  native  land  could  better  sound 
over  her  remains  than  those  widows'  sobs.  No 
Egyptian  spices  could  better  embalm  her  memory 
than  those  widows'  tears.  No  carved  marble  slab 
will  stand  in  the  church  of  her  native  village  to 
record  her  name  and  preserve  her  memory.  It  is 
recorded  on  the  tablet  of  the  orphans'  hearts,  and 
will  be  felt  and  cherished  after  her  body  has  crum 
bled  into  the  grave." 

Silently  the  father  and  the  son  deposited  the 
remains  of  their  loved  one  in  the  dust.  The  No 
vember  wind  howled  bleakly  through  the  bare  and 
leafless  trees  that  stood  over  her  grave.  The  leaves 
— fit  emblems  of  mortality,  dry  and  crisped,  and 
sear, — whirled  in  giddy  dances  over  the  rough-hewn 
tombstones  of  the  inclosure.  Far  in  a  corner  of 
that  grave-yard,  they  left  her,  to  await  the  Arch- 
angers  trump. 

Silently  they  passed  back  to  their  desolate  home, 
and  sat  down  to  their  untasted  meal. 

"  Edward,"  said  the  father,  "  we  are  all  that  is 
left  of  the  household.  You  are  of  age,  and  have  al- 


246       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

ready  entered  upon  the  duties  of  manhood.  Your 
path  now  must  be  an  independent  one,  based  on  your 
own  resolutions  and  decisions.  My  task,  as  the 
father  of  a  family,  in  this  world  has  ended.  May 
G-od  forgive  its  errors,  and  bless  its  efforts.  My 
plan  is  forme  1  Henceforward,  I  devote  myself  to 
the  interests  of  this  rising  colony.  My  private 
wants  are  few.  You  know  our  neighbor,  Peleg 
Wright,  has  been  obliged  through  misfortune  to  sell 
his  farm.  He  has  no  children,  and  it  is  my  determi 
nation  to  place  him  and  his  wife  in  this  house  to 
take  care  of  our  domestic  affairs.  His  wife  is  a 
strong  woman,  and  abundantly  able  to  take  upon  her 
shoulders  all  the  labor  your  mother  performed. 
Wright  himself  has  health  enough  left  to  superintend 
on  the  farm  such  laborers  as  I  shall  hire.  This  ar 
rangement  will  be  a  charity  to  them,  and  a  con 
venience  to  me ;  and  it  is  one  respecting  which  no 
scandal  can  be  breathed. 

"  But,  Edward,  as  I  said  before,  you  are  now  a 
man.  I  have  enough  property  for  you  to  commence 
life  for  yourself,  and  to  begin  the  solemn  duties  of 
the  family  relation.  Is  there  no  female  around  you 
of  the  proper  age,  and  of  a  suitable  disposition,  that 
you  can  make  your  wife  ?" 

"  Father,  you  have  touched  upon  a  delicate  sub- 


OR,   TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  247 

ject ;  but  I  will  answer  you  in  the  confidence  with 
which  you  speak.  There  was  one  to  whom  I  had 
given  my  whole  heart.  Late  disclosures,  as  you  well 
know,  have  forbidden  the  hope  of  possessing  her.  I 
can  love  but  once,  and  I  shall  never  marry.  To  this 
conclusion  I  had  arrived  long  since,  when  I  found 
myself  my  brother's  rival.  From  duty  to  him,  I 
had  buried  my  feelings  in  my  own  breast.  Now  he 
is  no  more,  I  can  express  them  to  you,  my  dear 
father  ;  but  I  cannot  comply  with  your  wishes." 

"  It  is  strange,  Edward,  that  I  never  suspected 
this.  Your  brother  made  no  secret  of  his  attach 
ment.  It  is  strange.  But  I  know  your  tenacity  of 
purpose,  and  the  command  you  have  over  every  ex 
pression  of  emotion." 

"  Edward,"  continued  he,  after  pondering  some 
time,  "  are  you  not  afraid  that  this  power  of  conceal 
ing  real  emotion  may  prove  of  disservice  to  your 
character  ?  Will  it  not  beget  not  only  a  cold  exter 
nal  habit,  but,  in  its  very  self-control,  produce  the 
same  coldness  of  feeling  ?  The  habitual  restraint  of 
the  expression  of  passion  may,  in  •  time,  repress  the 
emotion  itself,  and  you  become  cold,  calculating,  and 
feelingless." 

"  There  is  not  much  danger  of  that  now,  father. 
But,  whatever  may  be  its  effects,  the  habit  is  formed 


248      THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES ; 

and  fixed ;  neither  do  I  wish  to  alter  it.  Self-control 
will  give  me  a  much  greater  control  over  men." 

"  Be  careful  that  it  does  not  make  you  selfish 
and  overbearing,  as  life  advances. 

"  But,  my  son,  speaking  of  Jane  Seymour,  as  she 
has  been  called,  you  may  have  thought  it  strange, 
since  my  public  acknowledgment  of  her,  that  I  have 
not  brought  her  home.  I  could  not,  under  the  ex 
istence  of  your  brother's  feelings,  and  certainly  shall 
not  now  with  yours.  I  made  some  overtures  to  Cap 
tain  Seymour,  through  the  Governor,  to  assist  in  her 
support ;  but  the  Captain  absolutely  and  positively 
refused  all  assistance,  and  declared,  that  while  he 
lived,  she  should  never  want  support,  and  that  she 
should  never  darken  my  doors. 

"  I  have  reflected  a  great  deal  upon  the  occur 
rence,  as  much,  in  fact,  as  the  peculiar  condition  of 
our  late  sorrows  would  allow.  I  cannot  understand 
the  circumstances  yet.  If  Jane  Seymour  is  the 
daughter  of  Alice  Lee,  and  I  am  her  father,  she 
ought  to  be  much  older; — older  than  my  early 
recollections  of  her  childhood,  when  she  first  reached 
this  country,  would  warrant.  Yet,  she  is  the  perfect 
picture  of  Alice  Lee,  as  she  stood  before  me  in  the 
bloom  of  her  youth." 

"  Jane   used    to   say   that   her  uncle  made  her 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  249 

much  older  than  either  of  us,  and  yet  she  never  rea 
lized  it  herself." 

As  Edward  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow  that 
night,  Hope  wove  her  silver-threaded  web  over  his 
heart.  He  ransacked  his  memory  for  early  expres 
sions  of  Jane  and  of  Seymour,  before  the  families 
had  quarrelled,  to  make  out  the  fabric  of  another 
airy  castle,  and  furnish  materials  for  Hope's  woven 
tissue.  But  he  could  not  succeed ;  and  soon  his 
thoughts  took  another  turn,  though  still  every  link 
in  the  chain  was  stained  with  the  hue  that  had 
painted  the  first. 

What  a  magic  wand  has  Hope  !  What  an  appa 
rently  firm  tissue  of  events  can  she  weave  out  of  a 
single  attenuated  thread  !  But  for  hope,  the  world 
would  be  a  wilderness  indeed, — only  surpassed  by 
the  still  bleaker  "  leafless  desert  of  the  mind,"  which 
would  be  the  lot  of  those  who  tread  it ! 


11* 


250       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  : 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand, 
And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band, 
Has  still  a  harder  task  to  prove, 
By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love." 

Scott. 

WE  have  left  our  heroine  too  long,  and  we  fear  lest 
she  should  not  be  quite  as  much  a  favorite  with  our 
readers  as  she  is  with  us. 

When  the  surprise  and  shock  made  by  the  com 
munication  of  Capt.  Seymour  in  the  court-room  were 
deadened  a  little  from  their  first  intenseness,  Jane 
reflected  long  and  thoughtfully  upon  the  story. 
There  was  much  in  it  that  she  could  not  reconcile  to 
the  facts  in  her  own  memory.  She  had  heard  it 
remarked,  that  she  and  her  reputed  uncle  reached 
this  country  about  five  years  after  Col.  Dudley  ;  and 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  251 

that  Edward  was  six  years  old  when  he  came  to 
Connecticut,  and  his  brother  some  three  years 
younger.  She  computed  her  own  supposed  age  with 
these  data,  and  could  not  reconcile  them.  The 
memory  of  her  own  girlhood  was  inconsistent  with 
the  idea  that  she  was  so  old  as  Seymour  would  make 
her.  The  kindness,  too,  of  her  uncle  had  been  so 
uniform  and  so  intense  that  she  could  not  but  wonder 
why  it  should  have  been  exercised  towards  an  ene 
my's  child.  But  then  Col.  Dudley  had  publicly 
acknowledged  the  relationship,  and  made  overtures 
for  her  support.  She  puzzled  herself  in  vain  efforts 
to  disentangle  the  intricate  mazes  of  such  a  web  of 
inconsistencies. 

The  first  time  that  she  saw  her  uncle  alone,  she 
inquired  of  him  what  he  intended  to  do  with  her. 
"  Do  with  you  ?  why  keep  you,  and  support  you, 
and  love  you,  as  usual.  That  cursed  old  Puritan 
wants  to  do  something  for  you,  but  I  will  see  him  as 
far  the  other  side  of  the  infernal  regions  as  it  is  from 
here  there,  before  I  will  permit  it.  No,  Jane  !  I 
promised  your  mother  to  be  a  father  to  you,  and  I 
will  be.  So,  do  you  call  me  uncle  still,  and  be  my 
dear  niece ;  and  don't  worry  your  head  about  sup 
port.  You  shall  never  want  while  I  live,  nor  after 
I'm  dead,  as  you'll  find  by  my  will.  So  cheer  up, 


252       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

and  let  us  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice    singinp- 
through  the  old  house,  as  usual." 

"  Indeed,  uncle,  I  have  no  wish  to  leave  you,  but 
I  supposed  that  the  laws,  or  some  other  cause,  might 
require  it.  I  have  no  wish  to  go  into  Colonel  Dud 
ley's  family.  There  are  many  reasons  why  I  should 
not.  But,  dear  uncle,  this  stain  upon  my  birth  must 
ever  prevent  me  from  going  beyond  the  walls  that 
have  sheltered  me  so  long,  for  I  shall  be  pointed  at 
wherever  I  go.  Do  not  therefore  urge  it  ?" 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  not.  I  would  not  have  told 
thq  story,  but  to  shame  that  old  hypocrite.  I'm 
sorry  I  did,  if  you  take  it  so  much  to  heart." 

"  Such  truths  are  always  better  known  than  con 
cealed.  Think  of  the  horrid  situation  I  now  should 
be  in,  if,  in  answer  to  his  solicitations,  I  had  married 
Henry  Dudley.  The  truth  is  always  the  best,  and  I 
regret  that  I  was  not  informed  of  it  sooner  myself. 
As  for  singing,  dear  uncle,  songs  are  the  language  of 
joy  and  happiness ;  and  you  cannot  expect  them 
from  me." 

"  Well,  then,  be  as  happy  as  you  can  ;  but  never 
talk  of  support  while  old  Richard  Seymour  is  living." 

Ever  after  that  conversation,  Capt.  Seymour's 
conduct  towards  Jane  was  of  the  kindest  character. 
He  never  blamed  nor  scolded  her  as  he  had  often 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  253 

done,  but  allowed  her  to  do  as  she  pleased ;  and  ap 
peared  relieved,  and  even  gratified,  if  he  saw  a  smile 
upon  her  face.  He  was  evidently  in  considerable 
mental  perturbation,  and,  seemingly,  anxious  to  de 
cide  upon  some  course  to  which  he  was  averse ;  and 
though  kind,  and  even  tender  to  Jane,  was  terribly 
irascible  to  his  whole  household. 

From  the  reports  of  the  domestics,  Jane  learnt, 
day  by  day,  the  history  of  the  little  community  •  the 
departure  of  the  troops, — the  sudden  move  of  Henry, 
— and  the  grief  of  his  mother,  were  brought  to  her 
with  the  usual  exaggerations.  About  Henry's  state 
of  mind  she  made  many  inquiries,  and  expressed 
much  sympathy.  She  made  no  remarks  on  Edward's 
military  advancement,  —  not  even  expressing  her 
gratification  at  the  evidently  high  reputation  for  pru 
dence,  forbearance,  and  bravery  that  he  enjoyed 
among  the  leading  men  of  the  colony. 

"  It  is  Henry  after  all  that  she  loved,"  said  Han 
nah  to  Esther  ;  "  I  was  not  quite  certain  before,  for 
I  thought  she  rather  huffed  him^  It  is  he,  for  she 
has  said  so  much  about  his  absence  Aind  his  feelings." 

"  Well,"  said  Esther,  "  I'm  glad  it  was  not  that 
sober,  cold-hearted  Edward.  But,  poor  girl,  she 
can't  have  either  of  them  now  ! " 

How  falsely  they  reasoned  '     True  love  is  silent 


254       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

and  reserved.  It  is  shy  of  mentioning  the  beloved 
name,  and  shrinks  from  commemorating  even  the 
merits  of  the  favored  one.  Friendship  is  loquacious, 
— can  talk  and  act,  and  feel  sympathy ;  while  Love 
buries  its  sympathy  in  the  inmost  heart,  and  fears  to 
allude  even  to  the  cause  that  would  produce  it. 
Where  you  see  a  young  lady  prompt  in  praising  a 
man's  virtues  or.  good  qualities  of  mind  or  body, 
depend  upon  it  there  is  no  love  there.  Love  ex 
presses  no  sympathy  or  admiration,  however  much  it 
may  feel  them.  There  is  no  raising  of  the  eye  with 
the  glad  gaze  of  welcome,  as  the  loved  one  ap 
proaches  ;  the  welcome  is  in  the  dewy  lid,  the  cast- 
down  look,  the  trembling  nerve,  the  palpitating 
bosom.  Friendship  has  an  open,  honest,  gladsome 
gaze.  It  grasps  you  by  the  hand  as  welcome — yes, 
very  welcome  to  the  lighter  feelings  and  emotions  of 
the  heart. 

He  who  is  experienced  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
human  soul,  can  tell,  by  one  reception  from  the  girl  he 
secretly  loves,  ho^she  stands  affected  towards  him  ; 
how  much  the  j?Jy  of  seeing  him  is  the  honest  ex 
pression  of  open  friendship,  or  the  timid,  trembling 
concealment  of  hidden  love.  Even  a  lady's  eye,  if 
she  possesses  a  true  character,  will  be  guide  enough 
to  her  feelings.  How  differently  the  world  judges  ! 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  255 

The  news  of  Henry's  death  reached  Jane  sud 
denly.  Hannah  and  Esther  heard  it  early,  before 
breakfast,  and  formed  a  plan  between  themselves  to 
settle  the  question  of  her  love,  by  its  annunciation. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Jane,  only  think  !  Henry  Dudley  has 
been  killed  by  the  Indians,  and  they  are  bringing 
his  corpse  round  to  his  home  in  a  boat,  by  the  Little 
River." 

She  turned  very  pale  and  trembled,  as  what  girl 
would  not  at  hearing  of  the  death  of  one  who  had 
stood  to  her  in  such  a  relation. 

"  Oh,  horrible  news !  Is  it  true  ?  Is  Edward  safe  ? " 

The  handmaidens  were  satisfied,  and  they  in 
dulged  their  propensity  to  gossip  by  giving  her  the 
details. 

At  Henry's  funeral  Jane  took  a  seat  in  the 
corner  of  the  gallery,  in  rather  a  disguise,  so  that 
she  should  not  be  recognized.  Her  tears  fell  plen 
tifully, — whether  over  Henry's  bier,  standing  in  the 
aisle,  or  over  the  sight  of  Edward's  calm,  pale  face, 
we  are  unable  to  determine.  It  was  a  terrible  fasci 
nation,  however,  to  sit  and  mark  the  expression  of 
that  face  ;  there  seemed  to  be  something  more  manly 
than  ever  before,  in  the  rigid  determination  to  sup 
press  all  external  signs  of  immoderate  grief  which 
marked  his  countenance. 


256       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

"It  is  only  for  once.  It  is  only  for  this  time," 
exclaimed  she  to  herself.  "  May  God  forgive  me  ! 
but  it  is  the  last — last  time ;  he  does  not  think  of 
me, — he  never  will,  only  as  a  sister,  bringing  dis 
grace  to  his  house  and  his  father's  name." 

We  are  afraid  our  poor  heroine  heard  little  of  the 
sermon  that  day,  and  did  not  sufficiently  realize  that 
he  was  in  the  coffin  before  her  who  had  loved  her 
with  an  Eastern  fervency  of  passion. 

That  night  Jane  went  earlier  to  her  couch  than 
usual,  but  not  to  sleep.  She  held  a  long  and  solemn 
communion  with  her  own  heart,  and  chid  its  way 
wardness  in  loving  one  who  had  been  declared  to  be 
her  brother,  and  who  had  never  transcended  the 
bounds  of  a  brother's  gentle  love  to  her.  She  ac 
cused  herself  of  a  want  of  maidenly  delicacy,  in  thus 
giving  her  heart  unsought.  She  accused  herself  of 
crime  in  the  nature  of  her  attachment.  But,  accuse 
as  she  would,  the  feeling  would  arise ;  the  faint 
hope, — the  fancy  generated  by  desire, — that  there 
was  yet  some  unthreaded  mystery  about  her  birth. 
She  finally  came  to  the  resolution  to  rouse  up  every 
dormant  energy,  and  drive  his  image  from  her  mind. 
This  resolution  calmed  her,  and  she  set  about  its 
accomplishment  with  energy.  She  kept  herself 
busily  employed  ;  she  would  not  allow  herself  a  mo- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  257 

rnent  for  reverie,  or  even  reflection.  If  his  image 
occurred  (and,  alas  !  it  would,  full  often),  she  drove 
it  from  her  soul  by  the  effort  that  every  well-regu 
lated  mind  can  make.  A  change  of  place  would 
have  assisted  her  ;  but  she  had  no  daily  associations 
with  his  presence  at  her  own  home,  and  change  of 
place  was  the  less  necessary. 

Thank  heaven  !  such  wounds  to  a  sensitive  heart 
are  not  irremediable.  There  is  a  conservative 
energy  in  a  well-governed  breast  that  will  rally  from 
the  effects  of  such  a  wound,  and  recover  its  healthful 
tone. 

But  let  such  a  sufferer  avoid  the  society  of  the 
one  who  inflicted  the  blow — avoid  even  the  places 
where  the  loved  image  can  be  recalled  by  associa 
tions,  for  these  associations  that  memory  cherishes 
as  the  fondest,  are  the  most  opposed  to  the  power  of 
recovery. 

After  all,  the  discharge  of  accustomed  duty  will 
be  the  best  remedy  for  the  wounded  spirit  in  all 
such  cases  of  despair.  The  consciousness  of  per 
formed  duty  will  seem,  at  first,  but  a  poor  exchange 
for  love  unreturned  or  despised  ;  but  it  will  soon  ex 
tract  the  poison  from  the  dart,  and  bind  up  the 
wounds  of  the  soul. 

This  was   Jane   Sevmour's   consolation  ;   and  in 


258       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

the  performance  of  her  wonted  duty,  she  sought  for 
comfort,  and  found  it.  Her  uncle's  health  seemed 
to  be  breaking  up.  He  needed  her  society  and  her 
assistance  much,  and  she  gave  it  cheerfully ;  and 
found  not  only  comfort,  but  happiness  ;  not  enjoy 
ment,  for  she  seldom  smiled.  The  charms  of  life's 
future  prospects  had  been  broken,  and  though  the 
storm  was  retreating,  the  rainbow  of  promise  and  of 
Hope  did  not  gild  its  dark  border. 

All  her  anxiety  was  revived  by  the  intelligence 
that  Madam  Dudley  had  taken  cold  by  standing  on 
the  wet  grass  at  Henry's  funeral,  and  had  a  lung 
fever  ;  and  that  she  was  considered  dangerously  sick. 
The  daily  news  brought  her  of  the  sick  woman's  con 
dition  was  a  sore  trial  to  her  resolution.  She  re 
membered  with  gratitude  Mrs.  Dudley's  early  atten 
tion  to  her,  and  would  have  gladly  joined  the  sym 
pathizing  neighbors  in  their  care,  but  many  things 
intervened. 

When  Madam  Dudley  died,  there  were  such  un 
utterable  yearnings  of  spirit  to  have  the  power  of 
comforting  Edward,  that  her  heart  rose  in  rebellion, 
and  seemed  almost  inclined  to  fling  off  those  fetters 
of  stern  resolve  which  she  had  bound  round  it.  But 
her  better,  firmer  nature  conquered,  and  she  was  her 
self  again, — the  stronger  for  her  struggle,  though  it 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  259 

had  added  to  the  pallor  of  her  cheek  and  the  settled 
gloom  of  her  dark  melting  eye. 

She  did  not  attend  the  funeral.  She  argued  that 
it  was  better  for  the  firm  decisions  she  had  made, 
not  to  see  Edward  under  the  softening  influences 
which  sympathy  for  his  loss  might  create. 

Such  was  poor  Jane's  condition,  as  the  cold 
"blasts  of  winter  whistled  through  the  leafless  forests 
of  Hartford, — fit  emblem  which  she  presented  of 

"  The  shrivell'd  scroll,  the  scatter' d  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn-blast  of  grief." 


260 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"Dear  me  1  to  think  that  Dombey  and  Son  is  a  Daughter,  after  all !  " 

Miss  Tow. 

THE  health  of  Capt.  Seymour  appeared  gradually  to 
fail,  without  the  intervention  of  any  particular  disor 
der.  He  grew  melancholy ;  his  former  swelling  and 
bravado  had  quite  forsaken  him.  Once  or  twice  he 
was  willing  to  allow  that  his  Puritan  neighbors  had 
some  commendable  traits  of  character  :  he  was  very 
kind  to  Jane, — rather  oppressively  so. 

At  first  she  felt  inclined  to  be  by  herself,  and  to 
spend  her  hours  in  silence ;  but  as  soon  as  she  saw 
that  her  company  was  necessary  for  the  old  man's 
comfort  and  happiness,  she  seldom  left  him,  but  con 
versed  with  him  cheerfully  and  quietly,  though 
never  gayly.  She  read  to  him  from  such  books  as 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  261 

she  had  access  to,  but  more  particularly  from  the 
Bible.  The  daily  lessons  of  the  church  were  read 
by  her,  and  listened  to  with  most  devout  seriousness 
by  the  Captain.  She  tried  to  induce  him  to  attend 
meeting  on  the  Sabbath,  but  was  unable  to  accom 
plish  that  object.  His  will  was  rewritten  under  a 
lawyer's  direction,  and  it  secured  to  Jane  the  entire 
control  of  every  description  of  his  property,  brought 
from  England,  or  accumulated  in  this  country. 

As  the  earlier  months  of  winter  passed  on,  he 
grew  more  feeble  5  and,  finally,  one  morning,  when 
unable  to  rise,  he  listened  to  Jane's  earnest  request, 
and  sent  for  a  physician.  He  told  the  Captain 
plainly  that  his  constitution  had  given  way,  and  that 
his  lease  of  life  was  about  to  expire ;  so  that  if  he 
had  any  temporal  affairs  to  settle,  the  sooner  he  did 
it  the  better. 

At  first  Seymour  rather  laughed  at  the  assertion ; 
but  finding  his  strength  gone,  and  the  powers  of  na 
ture  failing,  he  became  alarmed.  His  attendants 
got  him  up,  and  attempted  to  dress  him;  but  he 
fainted,  and  lay  as  if  dead  so  long  that  all  the  family 
were  much  alarmed. 

On  his  recovery  he  called  Jane  to  his  bed-side, 
and  in  a  very  excited  voice,  exclaimed  ;  "  Yes,  I  will 
do  it  before  I  die.  I  will  not  go  to  my  last  account- 


'262  THE   FAWN    OF    THE    PALE    FACES; 

with  a  lie  in  iny  mouth.  Send  as  soon  as  possible 
for  Colonel  Dudley  and  his  son,  for  Governor  Haynes, 
Mr.  Culick,  and  Parson  Hooker.  Let  them  come 
immediately." 

The  persons  sent  for  arrived  as  soon  as  practicable, 
wondering  at  the  sudden  call. 

"  Mr.  Culick,  you  are  a  lawyer,  and  have  my 
will  already  in  your  possession.  I  wish  you  now  to 
put  down  in  a  proper  and  legal  form  that  which  I  am 
about  to  say,  that  I  may  sign  it,  and  swear  to  it. 
Governor  Haynes  and  Parson  Hooker,  I  have  sent 
for  you  to  be  witnesses  to  my  declaration.  Thomas 
Dudley,  you  and  your  son  are  interested  in  what  I 
have  to  say,  for  I  am  about  to  confess  injustice  to 
you.  Jane,  do  not  go  away,  for  I  wish  you  to  hear, 
and  shall  have  no  strength  to  repeat  it.  I  have 
much  to  atone  for  even  to  you."  After  a  short  pause, 
"  Hannah,  get  writing  materials  for  Mr.  Culick,  and 
then  leave  the  room." 

The  arrangements  were  all  completed ;  Culick 
and  Edward  sat  down  to  the  table  to  write,  Edward 
with  his  back  to  the  bed  and  to  Jane,  who  sat  weep 
ing  at  its  head,  ready  to  reach  any  thing  the  sick 
man  required,  but  keeping  her  eyes  studiously  averted 
from  Edward  or  his  father.  Col.  Dudley  sat  in  the 
chair  given  him  by  the  bed-side,  with  a  stern  and 


OR,   TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  263 

rather  haughty  look;  while  Haynes  and  Hooker 
were  grave  as  the  presence  of  a  dying  man  would 
make  them,  as  well  as  the  expectation  of  some  singu 
lar  revelation. 

Seymour  "began  by  turning  entirely  ground,  so  as 
to  face  Col.  Dudley,  and  look  him  full  in  the  eyes ; 
and  then  spoke  :  "  I  was  acquainted  with  Alice  Lee 
long  before  you  knew  her,  Thomas  Dudley.  I  was 
brought  up  with  her  from  childhood.  She  was  a 
sweet,  lovely,  fragile  thing, — easily  persuaded  that 
this  world  was  all  as  honest  as  she,  and  as  guileless. 
Her  great  defect  of  character  was  a  yielding  facility 
of  disposition,  accompanied  by  such  a  kind  wish  to 
make  every  body  happy,  that  she  was  ready  to  be 
stow  her  love  on  any  one  that  besought  it  with  tears, 
more  for  the  sake  of  calming  their  misery,  than  of 
making  herself  happy. 

"  You  remember  her  exquisite  beauty ;  that  I 
loved  her  is  no  wonder.  I  had  loved  her  from  the 
first  dawn  of  human  passion  in  my  soul.  With  me 
there  is  no  change  nor  turning.  Love  and  hatred 
are  equally  strong,  and  durable  as  life.  I  love  the 
memory  of  Alice  Lee  as  strongly  as  I  loved  her  per 
son,  and  I  hate  you  now,  Thomas  Dudley,  as  warmly 
as  I  did  seven  years  ago,  when  you  refused  my  vote 
in  the  Town  Meeting ;  and  I  tell  you  plainly,  that 


264 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE   FACES J 


were  it  not  to  do  justice  to  this  dear  girl,  you  never 
should  hear  how  I  have  wronged  you,  dying  as  I 
may  be. 

"  The  changeful  and  variable  disposition  of  Alice 
gave  me  gre,at  uneasiness,  though  she  professed  to 
love  me  strongly.  I  expressed  myself  so  warmly 
upon  what  I  thought  the  too  facile  character  of  her 
disposition  that  she  grew  afraid  of  me,  and,  though 
professing  still  to  love,  rather  avoided  me.  I  was 
never  gentle  enough  for  such  dispositions.  Kind- 
•ness  would  have  counteracted  the  evils  of  her  deport 
ment  much  more  readily  than  severity.  She  went 
to  visit  a  distant  relation,  as  I  thought,  and  still 
think,  to  avoid  me.  There  she  saw  you,  and  yielded 
to  your  ardently  expressed  attachment.  You  said 
in  public,  last  autumn,  that  she  loved  you  madly ; 
but  I  still  believe  that  there  was  no  more  affection 
than  she  had  bestowed  upon  me.  Perhaps  she  was 
incapable  of  a  lasting  attachment. 

"  I  followed  her,  as  soon  as  I  was  able,  and 
found  her  in  an  agony  of  grief  at  your  forced  depar 
ture.  She  at  once  appealed  to  my  sympathies  as  a 
brother,  as  she  called  me,  to  comfort  and  assist  her 
You,  who  know  my  character,  can  conceive  of  my 
chagrin,  and  even  rage,  at  being  appealed  to  in  such 
a  form,  where  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  a 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  265 

tenderer  tie  existed.  But  I  dissembled,  and  I 
promised. 

"  The  first  thing  which  I  did  was  to  examine 
into  her  alleged  marriage.  I  asked  her  for  the  cer 
tificate  :  there  was  none  signed.  I  inquired  about 
the  license  :  none  had  been  granted.  I  searched  for 
the  priest,  and  without  difficulty  found  him  out ;  and 
ascertained  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  fees,  he  had  de 
ceived  you,  and  had  never  informed  you  that  he  had 
been  suspended  by  the  Bishop.  The  whole  marriage 
was  plainly  illegal  and  void  in  the  eye  of  the  law.  I 
told  Alice  so,  and  made  her  believe  that  you  knew 
it,  and  had  \jsed  the  deception  for  the  purposes  of 
seduction. 

"  She  went  back  with  me  to  our  own  county, 
humbled  and  despairing.  She  felt  herself  the  victim 
of  deception,  and  sank  under  the  blow.  Submis 
sively,  she  begged  me  to  do  what  I  could  to  hide  her 
shame.  I  made  arrangements  by  which  she  was 
taken  care  of  in  Wales,  under  a  feigned  name,  where 
her  infant  and  your  child  died." 

All  his  hearers  made  an  exclamation  at  once ; 
even  Edward  forgot  his  usual  equanimity,  and  darted 
an  excited  look  towards  Jane  :  but  she  kept  her  face 
behind  the  bed-curtains. 

"  Yet  you  swore,"  said  Col.  Dudley,  "  that  she 
12 


266 

that  was  called  Jane  Seymour  was  the  daughter  of 
Alice  Lee." 

"  Be  patient,  and  hear  me  out.  Alice  was  an 
orphan,  as  you  well  know,  and  the  death  of  her  guar 
dian  had  placed  the  little  remains  of  her  fortune  in 
my  hands.  She  preferred  remaining  in  obscurity  in 
Wales,  and  the  civil  war  and  its  exciting  scenes 
rather  obliterated  her  from  the  minds  of  every  one. 
I  visited  her  constantly,  and  after  a  while,  renewed 
my  suit.  She  resisted,  although  I  brought  evidences 
of  the  illegality  of  the  marriage,  and  of  your  appa 
rent  desertion. 

"  On  your  father's  death  you  returned  from 
abroad,  and  came  to  Alice's  native  village  in  search 
of  her.  I  placed  myself  in  your  way,  and  persuaded 
you  that  she  was  dead.  I  knew  it  was  impossible 
for  you  to  discover  her  residence,  or  the  falsity  of 
my  representations.  On  my  next  visit  to  Alice,  I 
showed  her  from  the  public  papers  that  your  father 
was  dead,  and  left  her  to  draw  her  own  conclusions 
respecting  your  sincerity.  Your  marriage  to  Anne 
Stanley,  which  took  place  not  long  after,  was  like 
wise  duly  reported  to  Alice,  as  a  proof  of  your  faith 
lessness. 

"  This  argument  convinced  her  that  you  con 
sidered  the  marriage  illegal,  and  that  she  was  your 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  267 

victim.  I  found  it  easy  then  to  induce  her  to  be  my 
wife.  A  happy  year  was  spent  in  retirement  in 
Wales,  but  at  the  close  of  it  I  had  lost  the  treasure 
for  which  I  had  played  such  a  desperate  game.  She 
died  in  giving  birth  to  this  dear  girl,  who  has  been 
my  companion  and  my  solace  ever  since. 

"  Governor  Haynes,  and  gentlemen,  you  all  hear 
me  acknowledge  that  Jane  Seymour  is  my  daughter, 
born  in  legal  wedlock,  and  by  inheritance  and  by  will, 
heiress  of  my  estates." 

"Wretch!"  said  Col.  Dudley,  "did  you  suffer 
Alice  Lee  to  go  to  her  grave  believing  that  I  had 
wronged  her  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  think  me  such  a  fool,  Thomas  Dud 
ley,  as  to  suppose  I  would  undo  the  effect  of  all  my 
schemes  by  the  confession  of  such  a  trivial  affair  ? 
Besides,  of  what  use  would  it  have  proved  ?  You 
was  married,  and  was  engaged  in  those  political 
events  by  which  you  had  lost  your  property.  She 
was  dying,  and  blessing  my  kindness  with  her  dying 
breath,  that  had  saved  her  from  disgrace." 

"  One  question  more,"  said  Governor  Haynes, 
"  why  did  you  pass  this  young  lady  off  as  your 
niece  ?  " 

"  I  am  hastening  to  that  point.      My  marriage 
was  unknown  to  my  family  or  friends.    After  Alice's 


268       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

death  I  left  the  scenes  in  Wales,  that  only  brought 
her  to  my  recollection,  and  returned  to  my  native 
county.  To  avoid  curiosity,  and  the  possible  expo 
sure  of  the  deception  practised  on  Alice,  I  passed 
my  daughter  off  as  an  infant  niece,  left  me  by  my 
brother,  who  had  just  before  died  in  Spain.  The 
success  of  the  Parliamentary  army  led  me  to  collect 
all  my  property,  which  had  always  been  kept  snug, 
and  embark  with  my  supposed  niece  and  my  servants 
for  America.  New  Netherlands  was  my  destination, 
but  the  vessel,  for  some  reason,  came  up  the  Connec 
ticut,  and  here  I  resolved  to  settle  ;  though,  if  I  had 
known  before  I  left  the  vessel,  that  Thomas  Dudley 
was  a  member  of  the  colony,  I  should  have  gone 
elsewhere.  But  you  treated  me  kindly,  and  little 
Jane  soon  took  great  delight  in  Madam  Dudley's 
society  and  that  of  her  boys,  which  intimacy  I  en 
couraged,  until  the  refusal  of  the  Council,  of  which 
you  was  the  President,  to  receive  me  as  a  voter  un 
less  I  became  a  member  of  your  Puritan  church. 
Your  insults,  as  I  considered  them,  to  myself  and 
my  religion,  have  been  the  cause  of  all  the  difficul 
ties  between  us.  I  never  forgive ;  and  if  it  had  not 
been  to  place  my  Jane  in  her  proper  position,  you 
would  never  have  heard  of  this  confession." 

During  this  extended  conversation,  Edward  had, 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  269 

at  first,  trembled,  as  lie  wrote,  by  request  of  Mr. 
Culick,  the  outlines  of  this  confession.  Upon  his 
emotion  being  perceived  by  Mr.  Culick,  who  slightly 
smiled  as  he  observed  it,  Edward  made  one  of  those 
efforts  for  which  his  mind  was  distinguished,  ban 
ished  every  emotion  from  his  pale  face,  and  wrote 
all  that  was  needed  with  firm  nerves,  and  a  steady 
hand.  What  he  suffered  inwardly,  no  one  ever 
knew  ;  what  rising  hopes  and  new-fledged  joys  were 
nestling  in  his  bosom,  as  he  calmly  wrote,  were  nevei 
suspected. 

When  he  finished,  Mr.  Culick  took  the  instru 
ment  to  Capt.  Seymour,  who  signed  it  with  a  shak 
ing  hand  ;  and  then  it  was  witnessed  by  Gov.  Haynes 
and  Mr.  Hooker. 

Jane,  in  the  mean  while,  had  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillow,  near  her  new-found  father's  head ;  and 
though  her  sobs  shook  .her  whole  frame,  none  saw  fit 
to  notice  it.  She  dared  not  speak,  even  to  her 
father,  though  she  longed  to  urge  him  to  a  forgiving 
spirit.  She  dared  not  look  at  Edward,  lest  her  face 
should  betray  the  new-born  hopes  fluttering  in  her 
heart. 

Mr.  Hooker  then  rose  :  "  You  have  done  your 
duty,  Richard  Seymour,  to  our  brother  Dudley,  al 
though  not  with  the  right  Christian  spirit  of  forgive- 


270 


THE    FAWN    OF    THE    PALE    FACES; 


ness.  Let  me  urge  you  to  lay  aside  your  animosity, 
and  allow  the  light  of  mercy  to  irradiate  your  last 
hours." 

"  Parson  Hooker,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  sent  for 
you  as  a  respectable  and  influential  man  to  witness 
my  statements,  but  not  to  preach.  So  refrain." 

The  gentlemen,  at  this  hint,  took  their  leave,  full 
of  thought  on  the  strange  story  they  had  heard,  but 
perfectly  convinced  of  its  truth. 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  271 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  The  rose  is  fairest  when  'tis  budding  new ; 

And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  fears ; 
The  rose  is  sweetest,  washed  in  morning  dew, 
And  lovo  is  loveliest,  when  embalm'd  in  tears. 

Scott. 

THE  old  man  lingered  till  night,  carefully  and  affec 
tionately  attended  by  his  daughter.  She  never  al 
luded  to  his  late  statement,  or  the  strange  motives 
that  had  led  to  it,  or  to  the  new  views  and  feelings 
which  were  budding  in  her  mind.  He  was  uncom 
plaining  and  submissive,  though  he  knew  he  was 
gradually  sinking. 

Jane  had  no  time  to  turn  her  eyes  inward,  and 
reflect  upon  her  altered  destiny,  though  the  feeling 
that  it  was  altered,  would  occasionally  flash  over  her 
soul  in  its  brilliant  joyousness,  even  amid  the  con 
templation  of  the  death-scene  before  her.  It  was 


272       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES; 

impossible  to  prevent  it.  The  general,  steady, 
straight-forward  current  of  her  thoughts  was  towards 
her  sick  father  and  the  attentions  due  to  him.  But 
this  onward  tide  did  not  prevent  side  eddies  of  re 
flection,  or  rather,  of  sudden  suggestion,  where  the 
ideas  connected  with  her  present  condition  would 
float  round  in  rapid  circles,  as  if  they  were  in  glee. 

He  gave  many  directions  about  his  affairs  at  in 
tervals,  and  heard  very  devoutly  the  services  of  the 
church  for  the  sick  and  dying,  read  by  Jane. 

As  night  drew  on,  and  the  darkness  closed  around 
them,  the  Captain  stretched  up  his  arms.  "  Jane,  I 
am  going  ;  kiss  me  for  the  last  time  ;  forgive  me  for 
all  the  pain  I  lately  gave  you."  After  a  few  more 
gasps,  he  uttered  :  "  Jane,  tell  Colonel  Dudley  that 
I  forgive  him  the  injustice  he  did  me.  May  God 
forgive  me  all  that  I  have  done  and  felt  against  him, 
for  Christ's  sake."  "With  this  prayer  for  forgiveness, 
his  spirit  fled  to  the  tribunal  above. 

The  day  after  the  funeral,  the  trustees  under  the 
will  assembled  at  the  house,  by  order  of  Mr.  Culick. 
Edward  Hopkins  was  the  principal,  for  Capt.  Sey 
mour  had  said  that,  though  a  Puritan,  he  could  be 
trusted.  The  will  gave  his  whole  estate  to  his 
daughter  Jane,  whom  he  again  declared  to  be  his 
own  child,  and  born  in  lawful  wedlock.  Her  true 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  273 

age  was  also  stated,  which  made  her  a  year  younger 
than  Edward  Dudley,  instead  of  several  years  older. 
Mr.  Hopkins  was  appointed  her  guardian  until  she 
was  married.  A  packet  of  letters  was  ordered  to  be 
given  to  Col.  Dudley,  without  breaking  the  seal  of 
the  envelope,  which  proved  afterwards  to  be  letters 
that  he  had  written  to  Alice  Lee,  while  abroad, 
which  Seymour  had  taken  care  should  never  reach  her. 

Soon  after  this,  Edward  Dudley  requested  an  in 
terview  with  his  father,  and,  telling  him  of  the  love 
he  bore  to  Jane  Seymour,  requested  his  permission 
to  pay  his  addresses  to  her. 

"  To  this,  my  dear  son,  I  can  have  no  objection. 
The  feud  between  the  families  was  caused  by  a  cir 
cumstance  that  has  no  existence  now ;  and  I  am  by 
no  means  disposed,  except  for  such  extraordinary 
occasions,  to  thwart  the  wishes  of  the  young.  Jane 
is  worthy  of  your  love.  She  who  has  made  an  affec 
tionate  and  kind  daughter,  will  make  a  loving  wife. 
But,  Edward,  are  you  sure  of  your  own  feelings  ? 
Do  not  marry  her  merely  for  the  sake  of  having  a 
wife,  or  from  the  idle  fancy  of  the  moment,  or  for 
the  property  which  she  possesses,  and  for  the  influ 
ence  which  that  will  give  you  in  the  community. 
On  a  union,  formed  from  such  motives,  there  will  be 
no  blessing  descending  from  God.  Do  not  marry, 
12* 


274       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

unless  there  is  in  your  heart  such  a  fountain  of 
strong  affection  that  it  will  sweep  away  in  its  courses 
all  the  obstacles  which  the  petty  duties  of  life  must 
spread  in  your  way.  Obstacles  will  arise  to  the 
smooth  progress  of  married  love,  from  unforeseen 
dissimilarity  of  temper,  from  clashing  wills,  from  the 
various  lets  and  hindrances  that  clog  the  wheels  of 
life's  progress  from  without.  To  meet  all  these, 
there  needs  that  strong  affection  which  can  bear  and 
forbear,  which  can  submit  when  necessary,  and  re 
frain  from  exasperation ;  an  affection  that  makes 
the  two  spirits  but  one  in  feeling,  in  aim,  in  action. 
You  have  never  yet  shown  that  affection ;  can  you 
feel  it  ?  " 

"  Father,  do  not  suppose,  because  I  conceal  my 
feelings,  that  I  do  not  possess  them.  I  was  early 
taught  by  you  to  exercise  self-control.  Often  have 
you  told  me,  in  childhood,  that  its  want  was  your 
great  defect  of  character — your  easily  besetting  sin. 
I  saw  its  want  in  brother  Henry,  and  the  pain  which 
this  deficiency  gave  you  and  my  mother.  Hence,  I 
early  formed  the  habit  of  self-control,  and,  as  a  con 
sequence,  of  concealment.  I  am  conscious  that  I 
possess  strong  feelings  and  warm  affections.  I  know 
that  I  can  make  sacrifices,  for  I  have  already  made 
them.  Why  should  the  world  know  the  same? 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  275 

When  ray  character  or  acquirements  or  knowledge 
will  prove  of  any  benefit  to  the  world,  it  shall  have 
their  exhibition,  but  I  have  no  wish  to  carry  around 
a  card  on  my  forehead,  announcing  that  I  am  a  man 
of  strong  feelings,  warm  affections, — possessing  deli 
cacy  and  tenderness  and  truth  ;  look  all  ye  men,  and 
admire  ;  ponder  all  ye  women,  and  love  ! 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  father,  if  there  is  any 
thing  disrespectful  in  this  language  to  you  or  your 
wishes.  I  feel  assured  that  I  shall  make  a  kind  hus 
band  to  Jane,  for  I  love  her  with  all  the  energy  of  a 
strong  soul,  exercising  its  power  of  self-control. 
That  love  will  be  the  hidden  wheel  that  will  regulate 
every  action  and  feeling  of  my  life." 

"  Well,  well,  my  son,  I  am  silenced,  though  not 
convinced.  Depend  upon  it,  however,  if  Jane  Sey 
mour  possesses  one  of  those  dispositions  that  require 
daily  asseverations  of  love,  as  the  daily  food  of  th<? 
heart,  she  has  many  unhappy  hours  before  her." 

"  But  why  so,  father  ?  She  must  know  that  1 
love  her  next  to  my  God  ;  she  must  know  from  my 
character  that  my  affections  are  as  unchangeable  as 
the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians :  that  knowledge 
ought  to  satisfy  her,  without  my  telling  her  of  it 
daily.  I  shall  live  and  act  for  her  ;  why  must  I  say 
so  constantly  ?  " 


276       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

"  Edward,  you  do  not  know  any  thing  yet  of  tlie 
female  heart,  and,  hereafter,  when  you  find  Jane 
with  a  cloud  on  her  brow,  and  her  own  expressions 
of  intense  love  becoming  formal  and  constrained,  you 
will  remember  this  conversation." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES   AGO.  277 


CHAPTER   XXXYI. 


"  "Wilt  thou  be  mine  ?    Is  there  no  distant  hope 
That  time  will  waft  me  to  the  isle  of  joy 
Rising  so  fair,  amid  the  lake  of  life, 
Decked  with  bright  green  and  flowers  that  never  fade  ? 
No  greater  joy  to  me,  than,  by  thy  side, 
To  push  our  boat  to  that  green,  happy  isle ; 
Our  hearts  in  unison,  like  strokes  of  oars ; 
Together  braving  every  storm  that  low'rs ; 
Together  smiling,  as  the  sun  basks  bright 
Upon  the  glassy  wave,  that  floats  us  on." 

Altawmati ;   Canto  II. 

How  different  are  the  natures  of  man  and  woman  on 
the  subject  of  that  great  motive  power  in  the  mecha 
nism  of  human  happiness — Love.  On  the  mind  of 
man  it  is  much  more  violent ;  in  woman,  more 
lasting.  Man's  love  is  more  material;  woman's, 
more  intellectual.  In  man,  it  is  a  passion;  in 


278 

woman,  an  emotion.  With  man,  it  is  but  a  transient 
flame,  burning,  to  be  sure,  with  strength,  but  liable 
to  be  interrupted  by  the  employments  of  the  world. 
With  woman,  it  is  her  all, — "  her  world,  her  sun,"  fed 
with  continual  fire  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  her 
heart.  With  man,  it  is  the  relaxation  of  life  ;  with 
woman,  it  is  the  business.  Hence,  if  you  destroy  it 
in  man,  you  rouse  his  feelings  for  a  moment,  but  the 
cares  of  this  world  and  the  deceitfulness  of  employ 
ment  soon  rub  out  the  effect.  His  beloved  sinks 
from  his  heart 

"  As  sinks  the  stranger  in  the  crowded  street 
Of  busy  London :  some  short  bustle's  caused — 
A  few  inquiries — and  the  crowd  close  in, 
And  all's  forgotten." 

Destroy  the  source  of  love  in  woman,  however,  and 
all  her  comfort  is  withered.  She  has  no  world  to 
plunge  into  for  relief.  Love  and  domestic  happiness 
was  her  world ;  and  not  only  the  streams  of  her  hap 
piness  are  destroyed,  but  the  fountain  itself  is 
dried  up. 

The  declaration  of  his  attachment  was  made  by 
Edward  in  the  evening  of  a  cold  winter  night,  while 
they  were  sitting  around  the  blazing  logs  of  the  huge 
fire-place  of  the  sitting-room.  The  handmaids,  Han 
nah  and  Esther,  had  conscientiously  retired  to  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  279 

kitchen ; — conscientiously,  we  say,  for  they  were  do 
ing  as  they  would  be  done  by. 

Edward  was  as  usual  calm,  rational,  dispassion 
ate.  He  described  his  love  in  all  its  strength,  but 
he  so  governed  his  feelings  and  restrained  his  emo 
tions  as  he  did  it,  that  it  seemed  more  like  the  de 
scription  of  another's  passion  than  of  his  own.  He 
did  not  even  tell  her  the  extent  of  agony  that  he 
had  felt  in  supposing  his  brother  was  preferred,  nor 
the  struggle  that  he  underwent  to  make  the  sacrifice 
to  his  brother's  claims.  He  barely  alluded  to  his 
determination  of  making  that  sacrifice,  for  men  of 
his  peculiar  temperament  are  never  boastful  or  vain 
glorious.  He  related  how  he  felt  at  her  abduction, 
and  the  joy  he  experienced  at  her  rescue.  He 
dwelt  at  rather  more  length  upon  the  misery  pro 
duced  by  the  disclosure  in  the  court-room,  but  he 
said  he  never  wished  to  recall  it  again,  as  it  was  now 
over. 

"  And  now,  dear  Jane,"  he  continued,  "  are  you 
willing  to  spend  your  life  with  me,  preparing  each 
other  for  eternity  ?  You  know  my  character,  and 
well  know  whether  its  peculiarities  will  be  suited  to 
constitute  your  happiness.  Will  you  be  mine  ?  " 

Jane  had  remained  during  the  rather  long  exor 
dium  to  this  declaration  with  her  head  partially 


280       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

averted,  but  gazing  on  the  burning  coals ;  the  castles 
which  those  coals  made  as  they  fell  among  the  hot 
ashes  were  very  brilliant  and  beautiful  to  Jane, — 
the  world  to  her  young  mind  looked  as  bright.  In 
spite  of  herself,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  plea 
sure  it  would  give  to  answer  affirmatively. 

As  he  closed,  she  turned  upon  him  those  truthful, 
trusting  eyes,  swimming  in  the  moisture  of  strong 
affection ;  "  I  will,  Edward  Dudley,  so  help  me  God. 
I  will  willingly  spend  the  life  that  lies  before  me 
with  you,  hoping  that  death  will  be  but  a  passport  to 
an  eternal  union.  No  one  but  you  has  ever  pos 
sessed  my  youthful  affections ;  none  but  you  can 
ever  have  them.  I  give  you  all  that  a  warm  heart 
can  give ;  your  nature  is  not  such,  dear  Edward,  as 
to  trample  it  under  foot.  But  will  your  father  ap 
prove  of  your  connection  with  the  daughter  of  a  bit 
ter  enemy  ?" 

"  My  father  has  already  approved  my  choice,  and 
is  prepared  to  receive  you  as  a  daughter." 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  and  their  plans  and  du 
ties  for  the  future  had  been  discussed,  Jane  looked 
Edward  in  the  face  with  her  earnest  gaze :  "  Ed 
ward,  you  do  not  look  fully  and  perfectly  happy.  I 
fear  lest  my  imperfections  of  education  and  nurture 
will  diminish  your  happiness." 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  28* 

"  Not  so,  dear  Jane ;  but  understand  me  at 
once.  I  am  feeling  the  most  exquisite  happiness, 
but  see  no  reason  why  my  face  should  tell  it  to  the 
world.  Remember,  that  I  love  you  with  a  fervency 
and  strength  passing  the  love  of  woman ;  that  I  am 
unchangeable  in  every  feeling  and  purpose  :  yours  I 
am,  fully,  completely,  entirely ; — yours  I  shall  con 
tinue  to  be  while  life  throbs  in  my  heart.  Eest 
satisfied  with  this  knowledge  ;  it  will  always  be  so. 
It  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  repeat  it  often,  or 
to  make  an  every  day  boast  of  its  existence  by  un 
necessary  external  manifestation  of  it.  You  will  be 
happier  to  know  this  fact  now,  Jane.  I  am  ready 
now,  and  shall  be  at  any  moment  of  the  future, 
cheerfully  to  lay  down  my  life  for  you.  Your  image 
wiVL  be  always  on  my  heart.  For  you  will  be  my 
labors  and  efforts  ;  you  will  know  this  whenever  ac 
tion  is  necessary.  I  have  spoken  of  this  now,  that 
it  may  never  be  necessary  to  speak  of  it  again.  I 
had  rather  act  than  talk.  I  am  not  fond  of  making 
professions,  or  of  expressing  what  I  feel.  Rest 
satisfied  \with  the  knowledge  of  this  intense,  all-per 
vading  loite,  even  if  I  do  not  always  choose  to  find 
words  with\which  to  clothe  it." 

That  ni\ht,  ere  sleep  came  over  her,  Jane  re 
flected  long  aid  solemnly  on  this  last  conversation ; 


282       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 

but  under  the  cheering  influences  of  youthful  hope 
and  strong  affection,  she  did  not  view  it  as  an  ob 
stacle  to  her  happiness.  But,  alas  !  it  was  the  cross 
she  had  to  bear  in  life,  and  often,  very  often,  was 
she  obliged  to  recur  to  it,  to  prevent  her  heart  from 
sinking  within  her,  at  the  fear  of  the  loss  of  her  hus 
band's  love.  Great  things  would  occasionally  occur 
to  draw  out  that  hidden  love  in  all  its  power.  How 
earnestly  did  Jane  wish  that  such  great  occasions 
were  every  day.  There  was  no  coldness  through 
life  in  Edward's  treatment, — no  unkindness, — not 
the  least  neglect.  He  was  attentive  to  his  duties, 
anticipated  her  wishes,  and  was  a  constant  protector. 
But  with  Jane,  love  was  her  daily  food ;  she  needed 
a  supply  each  day,  fresh  baked  in  the  oven  of  affec 
tion,  to  satisfy  her  starving  heart.  She  missed  the 
daily  kiss, — the  affectionate  endearments, — the  rery 
words  of  love.  She  knew  that  Edward  loved  her, 
but  she  would  have  given  kingdoms  had  she  pos 
sessed  them  for  a  daily,  or  even  a  weekly  rejetition 
of  the  sounds  of  love.  She  was  not  exacting,  but  her 
heart  was  lonely.  It  needed  daily  encouragements. 
Had  she  been  an  ordinary  character,  her  bve  would 
have  grown  cold,  or  died  away  in  her  br)ast.  Such 
lamps  need  their  daily  supply  of  oil,  or  they  are  ex 
tinguished.  As  it  was,  she  buried  its  excess  in  the 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  283 

sepulchre  of  her  warm  heart,  and  built  around  it  the 
marble  of  a  cold  exterior ;  while  its  flame  was  si 
lently  devouring  her  heart's  core.  When  she  had 
children,  she  expended  on  them  the  superfluous 
warmth  of  expressed  affection,  which  her  husband 
did  not  value,  and  was  happy. 

The  character  of  our  young  Puritan  may  not  in 
terest  the  ladies,  but  we  must  portray  his  faults  as 
well  as  his  excellencies.  We  hold  him  as  a  warning 
to  those  of  both  sexes  who  suppose  that  sensitive 
hearts  are  wrong  in  demanding  constant  declarations 
of  attachment.  They  become  necessary  as  the  evi 
dences  that  love  has  suffered  no  diminution.  Jeal 
ousy  does  not  create  this  desire  ;  suspicion  does  not 
produce  it.  Sometimes  it  arises  from  a  want  of  con 
fidence  in  the  individual's  own  power  of  pleasing, 
and  the  fear  that  from  that  cause  that  love  has  ex 
pired,  if  it  is  not  expressed.  Sometimes  it  results 
from  the  actual  overflowing  of  an  affectionate  heart. 
It  must  express  the  attachment  that  so  constantly 
swells  it,  or  the  heart  would  burst  5  and  it  looks  for 
the  same  in  return. 

Husbands  !  wives  !  if  such  should  be  the  charac 
ter  of  the  friend  you  have  chosen  for  life,  do  not 
hesitate  to  gratify  such  desires,  even  if  they  may  seem 
unnecessary,  or  superfluous  to  you.  They  arise  from 


284       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  J 

no  want  of  confidence  in  the  strength  or  reality,  or 
continuance  of  your  attachment,  but  from  the  gratifi 
cation  of  hearing  repeated  often  the  happiness  taken 
in  your  love. 

But  all  this  was  an  after-feeling  on  the  part  of 
Jane.  She  now  sank  to  sleep,  elate  with  her  new 
born  happiness,  and  blessing  her  Creator  for  the 
flowery  paths  of  peace  and  felicity  opened  before  her 
steps.  They  were  the  flowers  that  the  dews  and  the 
sunshine  of  Hope,  Joy,  and  Love,  had  caused  to 
spring  up ;  their  perfume  came  over  the  senses  of 
the  imagination  like  the  odor  of  the  earliest  blos 
soms  in  Eden :  their  hues  struck  the  fancy  as  bril 
liantly  as  morning  in  Paradise  !  Did  they  wither  ? 

Edward  was  precisely  fitted  for  the  leader  of  a 
rising  State.  He  was  brave  when  the  exigencies  of 
the  case  required  it,  but  war  was  no  pastime  to  him, 
nor  did  its  glories  bring  any  gratification.  He  was 
one  that  would  never  hurry  his  infant  community 
into  conquest  to  feed  his  own  ambition,  but  he  was 
gifted  with  all  those  talents  that  made  defence  effica 
cious.  He  was  cool,  calm,  prudent,  full  of  resources, 
and  of  an  unyielding  pertinacity  of  character  that 
could  never  submit  to  usurpation. 

His  eloquence  bore  the  stamp  of  his  character. 
It  was  argumentative, — addressed  to  the  understand- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  285 

ing  alone ;  never  persuading,  until  conviction  had 
been  reached.  It  produced  an  effect  upon  the  con 
templative  minds  of  the  early  settlers  of  Connecti 
cut,  much  more  powerful  than  if  it  had  been  more 
imaginative.  On  very  great  occasions, — once  or 
twice  in  life, — the  hidden  fires  of  his  soul  burst  out 
in  strains  of  overpowering  eloquence,  that  swept 
every  obstacle  away  in  their  destructive  power.  He 
early  acquired  an  immense  influence  over  the  public 
mind,  and  never  lost  it. 


286       THE  FAWN  OF  THE  PALE  FACES  ; 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  The  steeds  were  tired ;  the  muse  is  too  : 
She  hopes  in  mercy  we've  got  through  : 

She  thinks  she  soon  must  die. 
Poor  jade!  I  fear  I've  used  her  ill— 
The  road  is  bad  across  the  hill,  » 

Where  fancy's  regions  lie."  ,  . 

Old  Times.  •      ^ 

"  FATHER,"  said  Edward,  soon  after  bis  marriage, 
"  Jane  and  myself  are  very  desirous  that  you  should 
take  up  your  abode  with  us.  Our  house,  thanks* to 
Captain  Seymour's  care,  is  a  very  large  and  com 
modious  one, — much  preferable  to  yours.  You  will 
then  have  some  one  to  take  care  of  you,  as  old  age 
creeps  upon  you,  and  be  surrounded  by  those  you 
love  and  who  love  you." 

"  No,  my  son,  it  cannot  be,  and  must  not  be. 
Under  such  circumstances,  a  father  is  always  a  re- 


OR,    TWO    CENTURIES    AGO.  287 

straint.  You  have  now  commenced  the  life  of  a 
man  for  yourself.  You  will  raise  up  a  family  to 
whom  you  will  be  the  vicegerent  of  God  on  earth. 
They  must  look  up  to  you  as  such ;  and  your  influ 
ence  will  be  weakened,  if  they  see  you  looking  up  in 
your  turn  to  your  father.  The  independence  of  a 
man  must  be  acquired  by  you  at  once,  to  make  you 
useful  and  respectable  in  the  community.  Our  ideas 
might  clash ;  you  would  then  be  exposed  either  to 
the  pain  of  opposing  them,  or  to  the  contempt  of 
sacrificing  your  own  views  to  mine.  A  son  had  bet 
ter  launch  his  boat  on  the  turbid  stream  of  human 
life  under  his  own  pilotage.  If  his  father  still  sits 
at  the  helm,  that  son  will  never  acquire  the  self- 
dependence,  firmness,  and  experience  necessary  for 
his  guidance.  No,  my  son;  I  shall  be  better  by 
myself.  I  shall  be  near  you, — shall  visit  you  fre 
quently  ;  but  to  be  an  independent  man  among  your 
fellow  men,  you  are  better  by  yourself.  In  the 
rough  school  of  actual  life,  you  will  learn  the  severe 
experience  necessary  to  enable  you  to  take  my  place 
in  this  infant  colony,  when  (rod  shall  say  my  labors 
have  ended.  My  pilgrimage  hereafter  in  life  must 
be  a  solitary  one,  but  I  gird  up  my  loins,  and  take 
my  staff"  in  hand,  to  walk  it  while  God  gives  me 
strength.  I  do  not  ask  to  die.  I  have  yet  much  to 


288 


THE  FAWN  OF  THE  TALE  FACES; 


do  in  the  formation  of  our  rising  State,  and  in  the 
establishment  of  true  religion  and  free  institutions 
in  this  new  land.  I  have  educated  you  for  the  same 
duty.  Go  out  then  into  the  world,  and  begin  your 
Christian  duties  by  raising  a  family  of  children  in 
the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord;  and  by 
governing,  controlling,  and  directing  them,  learn 
how  to  govern  men. 

"  Do  not  say  that  niy  lot  will  be  a  solitary  one. 
I  fear  not  solitude  nor  silence.  I  have  made  arrange 
ments  for  all  the  necessaries,  and  many  of  the  comforts 
of  life.  I  look  not  beyond.  I  make  no  complaints  of 
my  loneliness ;  it  is  the  cross  that  Christ  has  laid 
upon  me,  and  shall  I  not.'bear  it  ?  Your  mother's 
sainted  image  is  near  me.  She  comforts  me  with 
love  fresh  from  the  golden  streets  of  Heaven.  I  do 
not  repine,  though  the  zest  of  life's  enjoyments  has 
evaporated.  I  shall  not  feel  that  I  am  flung,  like 
the  wreck  of  what  I  once  was,  on  the  extreme  shore 
of  my  wintry  life,  useless  and'  crumbling  in  the  sand 
that  half  buries  me.  I  have  still  something  to  do  to 
glorify  my  .Maker,  and  to  benefit  the  world. 

"  Go  then,  my  children,  to  your  own  duties,  and 
may  God  bless  you  in  them." 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21A-38m-5,'68 
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